A Wounded Doe

The butterflies have yet to dissipate

Echoes of haunting trace

Like ice held against the cuts and scrapes

Of a road-rashed then steam-cleaned core

And somehow, it’s pleasant, this ache;

this promise of pain yet to come.
A certainty I can lean on
when "gentle" is not a word
his tongue can wrap around
or teeth sink into.
When the black and blue and yellow
cannot convey to his eyes
that it hurts.
That he's struck me.
But then, 
he cannot see what skin hides.