It is fresh.
It sticks to me, and collects grit
Because it is new pain, wet pain,
and though I only wear it
It is yet open.
It colors me.
It is dried.
Long ago, it stuck to me,
Until it festered, rotted, became old,
and as it is long stitched together,
So are it and I bound together.
It is part of me.
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