When it comes back again,
the lump that gripped my chest
first in two thousand and seven
then again last Saturday,
I think of further pain,
pain of losing my left index finger
in gyrating cogwheels.
A pinpoint redness appeared
on it when I was thirteen.
Then I waited until I fell in love
to show it to someone.
Before I could,
my skin had sucked it in.
No one loved that redness but me.
No one remembers.
