XXVII - POMPOM.

the slogging slowed down.

the sloughing of flesh

melted away

into a garden of daisies

i fertilized alone.

come morning, 

my bruises were an ugly

tint of blue.

a sign of healing, despite

being grotesque.

it is tender

because it remembers.

between sips 

of sunrise flavored coffee,

i thought:

tomorrow came,

after all this time!