Cuts
Bleeding
The cut comes every day,
Multiple times a day.
How many an hour?
I don’t even count.
“The first cut is the deepest,
Baby you know.”
What about cut two cut three cut four —
To the third fifth tenth hundredth power?
Are those cuts not as deep?
My heart is scar tissue,
My mind is infected.
Are you one I can really trust?
Or do you want to make me bleed?
You can’t hurt me anymore,
I’ve seen it over and over and under and sideways and inverted before.
I’m no longer in pain.
I’m numb on adrenaline.
“I’ll bleed it out
Digging deeper just to throw it away.”
That sounds more like me,
I’ll bleed no healing.
Put on bandages,
Tomorrow repeat.
“You scar too much.”
The skin splits easily.
Am I bleeding since you hurt me,
Or does my skin just peel?
I’m calloused to the bone,
Am I still here?
My feet move on their own,
I guess I keep getting up.
The cuts continue, like always.
I choose to take it sometimes.
My veins clot quickly.
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I’m published. Please consider buying my book. I wrote it in real time from my phone while I was in Colombia, while my marriage and life were falling apart, and while I was so ill I wasn’t sure I would make it.
Too Soon et pero Too Late: French Grace. American Collapse. Colombian Care.
This piece follows Nimila the Inferno’s prompt:
I am infected. I am raw.
Tell me if this has become a condition.
Scream if you can do something.
You can’t.
I will dig it out, write it down.
It will turn dramatic anyway.
It will go to waste - like me.
I feel you and hear you because it happens to me sometimes. Just keep sharing your stories because you matter