Some wounds gape open too much to be stitched together by a sip of wine and a good old cry

It would take waterfalls of tears, high concentration of salt, to wash this slash clean

And allow for the healing wave to begin.

My eyes cannot weep that much water.

It does not matter, for I carry a bleeding heart, have held it since the day it has started beating, pumping the world in and gushing feelings out – dizzy

Some wounds are too deep for the edges to be fused closed just yet

I can only thread a new needle, set my teeth, stare at the blood, then wrap the gashes in elegant dressing and turn the necessary cleaning into a ritual, raw with fear, anger, and sadness.

It does not matter, for every throb under my burning fingertips remind me that I am stronger than my pain.

Those wounds still close; they heal despite their depth. I don’t hope so – I know so

Day after day, cell after cell, tear after tear, flesh grows back, thicker, bridging all the gaps, and I will bathe it in water and sunshine until it darkens, just a little.

Just so it doesn’t disappear with the memory of the pain

Just so I can wear it as a badge of courage and a warning to that which intends to hurt me –


For I have been ripped open

And I will never

Have never

needed any of the king’s men

To stitch myself back together again

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