Dear foolish wound,
gaping gash in my pride,
self-inflicted affliction
of delusions of affection:

Bleed all you want
in the privacy of solitude,
but do not make gaudy
show of yourself in public.

I’m stitching you up
with coarse sutures of reason,
joining the ragged edges closed
for the sake of modesty.

Forty-eight hours
of dignity is all I ask.
Then you can break open
and bleed to your heart’s content.