I picked a wound open yet again,
It screamed at me hysterically:
“How many times will you reopen me just for a stain!?”
Until you bleed extensively.
~
The windmill still keeps on turning,
For now I shall confess,
The heart is drowning in yearning,
Making an awful mess.
~
But I find it appealing,
That mess of mine,
It means the healing,
Will soon start to shine.