Slice, bleed, red tinge, flow.
I remember the early days,
the bruising, playing with the skin
steady pressure until the rise almost breaks,
sometimes it does, a trickle, fascination,
that’s enough for tonight.
So how did we get here then, with the deep laceration,
our hearts pouring out of our body,
trying to catch all the misery in a soaking towel,
crimson with shame.
I wonder if anyone understands when they see my scars.
when time seemed an endless silent scream,
the fear of revealing an internal battle with peace.
When the knife knew just how deep the pain
the relief point,
the place where everything would fog
rather than pierce the mind with anxious reminders.
I wonder if everyone knows what raw means,