Outside/other/apart, your draw yourself in a silence that traces weariness on the outlines of your tired face; in the absence of speech and wills that soon break.
Wounds once stitched in light and shadow open up to spell your shame in blood and marrow; at once outside, othered, and parting as spirits do from their lingering corpses.
You will soon settle in the ache of injuries that cease to convalesce; abandoning all warmth, all care, and comfort. This is your life and you're worse than dead to me. Don't pretend this is alright.
I'm left outside, othered, and apart.