Every once in a blue moon
She looks.
Looks at the damage done
And the memories embedded in her mind.
It's odd.
How one minute you can be calm
And the next not even notice tears
Streaming down your cheeks.
It's an odd process too.
Healing that is.
You use things to drown it out.
Drugs, alcohol, sex, violence, and music.
Anything to push it
To the back of your mind.
But it never truly works, does it?
So she looks.
She looks at the marks that might not fade.
She looks at the chaos that ensues daily.
From one cage to another
One might say.
It's odd how we can be so blinded by glitter
And pretty lights.
Yet the moment we see a glimpse of the truth,
A sentence from another,
It cracks.
Like a glass about to break,
It cracks.
And the veil that covered your eyes is gone.
No longer is an aphrodisiac shoved down your throat.
No longer are pretty words stuck in your mind.
No longer do you feed into it.
The harshness.
The cold and relentless feeling of judgment.
It doesn't phase you at this point, does it?
As if there's armor covering you—unable to be penetrated.
The process of healing is odd, isn't it?
YOU ARE READING
Open Wounds
PoetrySome wounds have healed. Some are new. And some are reopened. They get larger and deeper. More painful. What will become of these open wounds? The healing process is hard, Tedious, Strenuous, But it is worth it.
