Wounded Words [Poem]

The words bleed through the page like open wounds

sewn shut with scratch-marks,
dried into imitations of themselves.

I had to gouge the falseness
from the spaces between each letter

so when I wound a thick gauze
around my wounded words

they would heal.

Photo by Peter Chiykowski on Unsplash

At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, that includes today’s prompt word, “wound” in the body of the poem. We can use the word “wound” or a form of the word – not a synonym for the word.

My Hotel Heart [Poem]

My heart has always been a hotel –

a passing through point
on the road to somewhere else

or else a place to drop off bags
and lighten the load for a short time
during one night stays and brief layovers.

The only signs
there was every anything there
at all
are
ruffled sheets, indented pillows,
the odd forgotten sock or sweater,
a short letter,
scrawled on hotel stationary,
hidden
in the drawer
of my mind.

My arteries are clogged
with the mass
of small trinkets and memories
left behind by people
who have
long-since forgotten
staying
the weekend
within my walls.

When I met you,
my hotel heart
did not know what it felt like
to feel like home,
which may be why
we began in stops and starts,
departures and returns,
each return uncertain.

When we would fall
into a comfortable silence,
each on our own phones, in our own worlds,
connected by nothing
but your head on my shoulder,
I would fear
we were falling apart
and wait for the comfortable feeling to leave,

but it never did.

In those silences,
we no longer felt
the distance of being two people,
no longer needed words
to convey
our thoughts –

just being together was enough.

In those silences that we shared
my hotel heart
began to feel
more like a home.


Photo by Dominique APPIETTO on Unsplash