Wounded

Denise Kollock


My heart, why do I need that? See…
I’m used to these wounds
digging deeper into my flesh
bloody Mary red bursting-
bursting out, creating a river of tears. These tears
running down my canvas.
This blood, gliding slowly down my body
causing another catastrophe,
this calamity of suffering.
 
It’s fine.
 
 
no, seriously. It’s really not fine,
my heart is worn out
stitching is taking its toll
these bandages are getting weaker.
If repatched to be broken again, then
what’s the point? What
is the point of even loving
because, in the long run, I am just
damaging myself even further.
Is there ever a
point?
 

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