Poems From My Mostly Dark Places

13 - My Wounds

01/24/2016

And sometimes, well most times, while my mind wanders I find myself running my fingers lightly over where I once bled.

Over where the wounds were so deep I thought I would bleed out before anyone knew to look for me, look at me.

To look for who I once had been.

But you saw, before anyone else had, the blood running from my neck and hands.

Of course it was you.

You who also took the risk of bleeding to death when no one noticed the wounds in plain sight.

It was always you, you found me in the worst of conditions, bleeding and clutching my skin.

You, who I trusted to touch my wounds after having been abused by gentle hands.

You, who showed me the scars of old bloody wounds that healed over because you were always so much stronger than I.

You, who healed me.

Of course you're the reason I sit here feeling the hardness of my skin where he hurt me, instead of raw open flesh.

It was always you, and the healer that lives inside your rough hands.