by Belinda Munoz
A wound need not be open,
bleeding or infected to require bandage.
Sometimes, head-to-toe couture is the dressing,
a luxurious lie that hides the shame of starvation,
scattering stardust to leave behind a blinding screen.
Fools anyone polite enough to shunt a probing stare.
Silly, sentimental songs with a sprinkling
of warm-blooded sin is the fleece
that unfreezes the frost from a shivering heart.
Prickling pain, now bearable,
still throbs just beneath the layers.
Undressing is a most critical step.
Not feeling skinned and raw when the
swathe comes off, a trick.
To be good as new, an unwarranted treat.
To let scars breathe and light bathe nakedness, a promise.