Some wounds have this peculiarity:
They may be hidden, but they never fully close.
Always painful, always ready to bleed when touched,
Delicate as a withering rose.

They remain fresh and open in the heart,
with every pulse and breath, pulling apart.

As you lay in your hospital bed,
hurting more than you can bare,
I'm sorry for all the times I gave up on you,
For all the times I wasn't there.