New Bloom

I am a watermelon sliced by a cutter, ripped by four tigers,
swinging their heads with glass sharp teeth. Playful dog, wagging its tail.
Raggedy Anne doll swing of the head, side to side, flashlight glow in their eyes.
Pinching every inch of my carcass. I rise, organs dripping out of me.
They back off as I stand up, time erasing my wounds into bite marks.
Like a cloth, over washed and over dried, I sweep from the pond of my
heaviness, damaged. My eyes are dancing with a red fire, constantly
being rekindled despite the scars. My scars are a tribal mark to bring
friends to fight with me, and make new scars to gather more comrades.
The leaf is turned over and the gash sprouts a new bloom.