Covering My Wounds

[ISawASpaceship]

Long strokes of red                              how about "striations"
run up and down my arms and legs
created by tearing and ripping             the
as nails met skin.


Flesh carries a spotted, purple hue
from the beatings
that were self-inflicted
as injury gave way to pain
and pain gave way to pleasure
because the pain meant
that I didn't have to feel
while I wailed at God
but only from within,
a cry of anger
emanating from my spirit,
as I interrogated my Creator.
I resolved to rouse an answer from the Maker          from an omniscent Maker
of the moon
and the stars,
the one who knows everything,
the one who could tell me why my life is this way
but no answer He gave,
as I raved,
and I finally
gave up the conflict,
rising from my place,
where I made my way to the bedroom
and I looked for a hoodie
to cover the marks.

The search 
reminded me of the hoodie that I used to own,
one that I dearly miss,
but it's not really the hoodie, itself,
that I miss.                                     lost me here in this stanza, not clear to me what this previous hoodie represents.

I'll give context to the last stanza. Let's just say Westley (the name I've chosen to call him so that you simply have an idea that I'm talking about a person I've written about in prior poetry) has a hoodie that I gave him and I don't actually miss the hoodie, itself but I miss the hoodie because it means he's not here.