Confession by Kaitlyn Newberry

Flesh torn from muscle, muscle from bone.

Scratched and scabbed, broken and bloody

I approach you.

Old scars cover skin and new ones

form over old. 

Crippled I crawl to you; 

Bruised I beg of you:

Heal me.

You kneel beside me and inspect 

my wounds without touching.

I shutter at the nearness of you, 

embarrassed that I had not come earlier.

So many cuts; so much blood.

What could you possibly do?

“Tell me,” you say.

“Tell me of each wound.” 

I open my mouth to come up with 

excuses. To lie. 

But you gently hold my hand and 

knowingly hold my gaze. 

I cannot lie.

So instead, I tell you.

As I confess the first, it vanishes from

my skin. How, how could this be?

You wince. 

Inspired, I quickly confess the next 

And the next

And the next. 

You gasp. You never lose my eyes.

I finally notice why

my scars leave

as you hold my hand.

Each wound I confess

heals on my body and 

inflicts itself onto yours. 

Now, at the end of my confessional,

the conclusion of my healing,

I look to you and see the man I once was.

Your flesh torn, your blood poured, 

you broke so that I am whole.