Every time my wounds begin to heal,
every moment a scab begins to hide the
festering, pus encrusted gash across my chest,
the torn hole through which my heart was
ripped out from behind the skeletal cage
I had thought so surely it would be safe behind,
You have to reopen my scars,
pick of the crust of my scabs that had been so
frail in hiding my exposed wounds,
and tear the skin just that bit further
with your persistent inability to let me let go,
your inability to let me heal.
YOU ARE READING
A world unlike your own
PoetryNot poetry, just words. My world is different to yours. Here's a slither of it. Come find me Best rankings: #1 in Poembook #1 in Therapeutic #3 in Thoughts #29 in Poetry
