They bind
and entwine.
They encase
but don't erase.
They cloak
but don't choke.
They wind
but don't confine.
They envelop
and develop.
They mask
but don't ask.
They grow
and grow—
holding,
folding,
protecting
from infecting,
covering
from hovering,
ancient linen
keeping me hidden—
around
and around,
endlessly surround—
my wound,
wound.