What goes up, must come down.
What goes in, must come out.
What comes without, we keep away.
It finds a way, though, anyway.

Wounds,
     opened like a birthday present.
Junes,
     scabbed knees with no parents present.
Rooms,
     of doctors neither calm nor pleasant.
Blooms,
     in roses from my adolescence.

Blood pours forth from the gaping ****.
Disintegrating memories burning to ash.
As gore pours out, disease seeps in.
Facilitated by shifts to freezing seasons.

Labs,
     where scientists attempt to sew.
Cabs,
     of doubt I pay to take me home.
*****,
     not redder than me when boiled whole.
Scabs,
     as much a fix as I'll ever know.