Pain

Starving for my thick-skin,

this hungry burning throb

meets me at the sole.

I flinch in pain,

as I bury hot teardrops

in the valleys of my cheekbone.

But mellow words from lovers, pierce harder.

‘No shield against compassion’,

I shrug and sigh and allow its sting.

The blissfulness that it is, oh!

What then are these mere blisters,

compared to that ardor?