I have an open wound,
On the palm of my hand.
It burns and bleeds,
And has yet to stop.
Every handshake,
Ends with a trail of red,
And every fist,
A splatter of crimson.
I have gotten used to,
The drips of thick liquid,
And the crusted remains,
Of what was once flowing.
I constantly hold a gauze in one hand,
With the aching pain in my other.
Yet I am unable,
To bring my hands together.
I acknowledge,
The disgusted glances,
Laced with faux sympathy,
And strained smiles.
But no hand has reached out,
To grab onto the mutilated one of mine,
I see the reluctance in their eyes,
When they see the cracks before them
YOU ARE READING
Writing Collection
PoetryJust a bunch of extra poetry(?) and a few short stories here and there.
