The mirror shows a stranger’s slow repair

The mirror shows a stranger’s slow repair,

a yellow-green smudge where the needle went in.

It’s been a week and it’s still sitting there,

settling deep underneath the thin skin.

I button my shirt with a clumsy hand,

watching the way the light hits the bruise.

This frame is a house I don't understand,

with locks and with pipes I didn't choose.

It heals on its own time, quiet and slow,

ignoring the plans that I’ve made for the day.

I’m just a tenant with nowhere to go,

watching the colors dissolve into gray.