The Skinned Wolf

I put a plaster on the crust
That remains on a wound
Somewhere, in the forest
Of my mind.

You complain:
It won’t heal fast
Enough, you say,
As you pull off the only help

I ever offered myself;
Not you but your anger
Strips me bare,
Leaving me alone

To bleed,
From a wound which lost
Its crusty shield –
Exposed,

For everyone to mock,
Like an emaciated, skinned wolf
On a pile of flowers.

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