Sunday, January 30, 2011

Festering Wound

Death is.

One minute you're fine and then 

The scab is torn off and all sensitivity is hanging out.  

It bleeds.  

It's raw.  

Gaping.  

And then what?  

Wait until it doesn't hurt anymore?

Or until I can slightly function?  

Or until I can breathe for five minutes without catching my breath all over again?

It never ends, does it?

It always sneaks back in, doesn't it?

And if you were here you wouldn't pat me on the head and tell me that it was going to be alright.  

Because you know better.  

You would cry with me.  And her.  And her.  And her.  And him.  And them.  And all of us.  

Make it stop.  
Make it stop.  
Make it stop.  





I just really miss you.  

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