The Bruised Lines

The bruised lines

In the palm of my spirit

Show a violent healing:

A bleeding cornucopia

of wounded forgiveness, burning compassion, and refreshing truth.

A tired, purple eye.

But a saved one.

Is watching me from behind the black-red curtains

of my personal history.

My fiery transformation.

One moment: an earth maggot.

One moment: a majestic butterfly.

I owe my becoming to the abyssal pain.

To the abandonment.

To the betrayal.

To the misunderstandings.

To the Judas.

Without them, my wings would’ve been too short.

Now, I bleed.

Now, I open my wings.

Now, I fly high.

Now, I heal.



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