The weal split
and spurted
like ripe fruit

in the darkness
tired and dazed
I said -
forget it 
and come to bed - I did not
see your agony.    

In the cold light of a new day 
I felt my shame burn hot 
as I looked at your torn leg 
gouged on the
metal bed, realised it 

should have been stitched and I
should have risen to give you 
love how cold the heart can be when
drink-dimmed and made drowsy by sleep's need 
in the middle of the night.    

I injured you and the white scar still
speaks of it: open and ugly mouth unclosed by skill.
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