sometimes the pain is so searing,
so blatant
that it brings me to my knees
i felt that writing become a dagger
that i kept reinserting into old scars, open scars,
an implement that i impaled myself on
repeatedly
when i tried to explain and
communicate how i felt to others
by way of prose, by way of tears,
by way of sighs, by weight of grief
i felt the wounds scar over
the dagger still resting under the surface
continuing to hurt awkwardly
as i shifted my weight from foot to foot
to walk from my kitchen to my couch
i hated the feeling of it scarring over
my tears having already been given
no longer healing the scab that had formed
what do they call these fake scabs anyway?
it's just disguising the rot below.
would it not be better if i cried in fetal position on the floor?
it all hurts anyway.