I don’t have reconciliation at my disposal. I have wounds that don’t mind being promiscuous walking the streets in revealing clothes with a four loko in hand and a brick as a heart. You keep walking cause you ain’t got no car you gone travel the miles of these wounds. A dove release is pale bad luck. A yard of crow is an infection showing the pain affection. Talk about solitude around these wounds they will show you the kingdom built out of loneliness that sits in my left lung. These wounds get standing ovations from strength. Somehow time crumbles into medicine and lands on these wounds. Honor the mother that birthed pain in pain and that father never taught you to be strong through it. The wounds aren’t bodacious. The become brilliant in silence. When they speak… but when they speak… wounds are warriors.