goodnight moon

There was a man tasked With opening a wound in my back Every night

I would brush my teeth And he would diligently carve the inside of the wound To ensure the blood would saturate my pajamas Before waking in the morning So I could open my eyes to the smell Of healing flesh

Sometimes whistling over the sound of groaning skin Or weeping at the inconsequence of his scalpel

Delicately prying the chewed slot As though peering through an old envelope I trusted his proficiency in this matter Because of his own visible sores Which appeared adequately dismantled

He told me one day I could reach the wound alone and I wouldn’t need him anymore To prevent the scabbing I resented

But until then He didn’t mind helping too much