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?