Mottled is stormcloud, is sculpin, is pig iron.
You’re more like curdled, if skin were capable
of spoiling—ridged & risen & birthday-balloon
red, never the same two days in a row.
My MS specialist says driving the needle
deeper will lessen the rippling sting
of you (unless I hit muscle; then you’ll knell
through my arm for a week). She assures me
you’ll vanish one day. A phase, like the spangly
cowgirl boots I outgrew when I was nine.
We’re stuck a few more years in this uneasy
marriage, but the truth is, I’ve grown to love
you, my blood-twirlers. My little spider-bites.
Every time I press the plunger down, you throb
brave, brave, brave, & I believe you. You’re the proof.