The Raw

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,

seeking relief,

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,

I do.

2 thoughts on “The Raw

  1. I love that I can be away from your work for awhile and then dive right back in and be instantly emotionally invested. This one BURNED me to the core. Wondering and hoping if the scars aren’t physical ones but mental, from pens, and the blood could be ink? So moving.

    Liked by 1 person

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