Before, you curled inward

around hurts and scars;

braille of battles

seldom won; fissures

and wristroads

a razor made.

                         Stutter

from tongue-stump

unable to utter

its woe.

                          Still,

from tongue-stump

unable to utter

its woe.

                           Still,

your body was mostly

intact, and you

told yourself:

I'm a lucky husk.

And now, you're shattered,

hurtled outward:

shrapnel of stars

and a weird music:

bone in the wind's throat.