Remember that feeling, When you pick at a scab. The fleshy white skin that forms, over the red underneath.
A thin layer that protects From elements, as you heal.
But I'm, Left staring, Mouth-wide open, at the blood, Coagulating silence.
I wonder, This time, Why did you come back? To pick at my just healed wounds? I'm sorry, All that's left is ash. The charcoal still burning, Red-orange flames. Dying down, Burning out. This ash, It covers me, From head to toe.