The trenches dug into the skin of my arms and my legs are mere reminders of the war that has been and is going.
The endless struggle that only gets harder as my resources and aid dwindles.
Such aid covers all help from once enthusiastic friends, eager to be the hero to redeem the guilt they feel when they talk behind my back.
Fragility is what they describe when they explain to outsiders their reasons for not telling me to my face.
"One push is all she needs before she jumps by herself"
"Of course police officer, I knew nothing about how badly she was coping, we're all devastated" they would tell the media.

The burning the cuts leave on my skin is a mere reminder of the fervour that once lit the veins that circled my body.
The throbbing is what my heart felt at the thought of you.
I have to replace what I miss, surely? And I will not deny the privilege of someone else who wants my love.
Though a part of that is missing.
Maybe it left with the blood that trickled from my wounds.