old gauze
i confide once again in the writings i weave in pain. a thought, a writing, that will never cease, the flesh was torn and the wound will only grow. i reach deeper, hands bloodied, to find something that i can resonate in. a creation from my own flesh, i give it a new life to be admired, to die, to repeat. i fear no one wants to heal me, the blood is seeping through, on display for that which i meet, but they shall not speak. i will not, i don’t need the attention, the wound will close with time. and through time i shall weep, the pain comes with a sickening comfort. a reused metaphor, an old wound. i didn’t deserve this, i couldn’t have fought. so i wait, i wait for the blood to stop flowing, i wait to feel the comfort of healing once again. until then, i tear my flesh to watch it die in pitiful expressions upon the page.