A Wound Like Your Love [an unfinished poem]

[I found this poem that I had started a few weeks ago. It was supposed to be of 26 lines (i.e. three stanzas of 4 cut by one line, and another three stanzas of 4, ending with one line.) But then I never got to finishing it; actually I forgot about it! The last line of the poem was supposed to be about how his love is/was like that wound. I read the unfinished poem this morning and decided to leave it this way. I lost the sense of how it should go. But may be that's because the wound is healing?!]

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It started with a small cut: A line, a scratch?
Almost! Barely perceptible on my brown skin,
Like ethereal silver pressing on a pound of flesh
To stab or not to stab? To cut or not to cut?

A year later it stretched opened like a crack
In soil dead and dried, begging for water,
Imploring mercy, knee-bent, beseeching
To be covered, to be hidden under bandages.

The grotesque wound was of two minds,
Of two bodies, of two skins: My body partitioned
By the thick taste of blood and the purple of pus.
Over it I wrapped alcohol impregnated bandages:

Sterilized, clean: An act of forgetfulness.

But wounds under a bandage do not heal,
They simply hide like monsters under ones bed
And come out on full-moon nights and tug
At a hand left hanging, dangling from a sleeping body.

With the same fingers, I ripped the bandage off my skin,
I looked at the wound, deep inside, licked its beauty
Along with its pain, its pus, its rot like leeches in my flesh