Painted on your skin:
Thin traces of crimson,
A vast and complex network of scarlet paths
Always returning
To the same place
Where there is no beginning
And no end
To your freshly made scars.

Spider webs spun
Of the finest red silk,
Draped across your body
As a sick metaphor to a cloak;
So delicate a thread
Cutting deep into your skin,
A match to your crown of thorns.
Open wounds,

If only I had been there
To quietly place my hands
On you
And somehow rearranged the picture
Drawn so harshly onto your body.
If I had,
Would I?