This cotton wool and iodine can’t even clean these wounds.
Your debris, like glass shards still cut with every move.

How am I supposed to heal, when new bruises keep appearing?
The very thing that’s killing me is the one that I’ve been fearing.

I’ve applied so many bandages, that I’m almost mummified.
This enclosure that you’ve left me in has me completely terrified.

I can barely breathe and I swear that my pulse is racing.
This is, undoubtedly, the final moments that I am facing.

I’m pacing, I can’t stand to sit or stand in place and
Even as I place one foot ahead, I do so limping,
Feeling like a biscuit dipped in coffee hot as lava.
‘Cause your burns are third degree and it don’t help me calling mama.

So I’m snipping at this dressing, hoping to cover every cut.
But they’re deep and keep on splitting so they’re not even scabbing up.
You keep telling me to seek some help, that my wounds are self inflicted.
But how dare you be so nonchalant, when you’re the reason I’m afflicted.

These wounds can’t heal because your face is the knife and when that 6 inch blade penetrates my skin it goes through flesh, muscle and bone and finds its way home into the four corners of this blood pumping vessel.

These wounds can’t heal because your tongue is like a bat and every word you speak hits me so hard that I bruise from the inside out.

These wounds can’t heal because…
…I’m still breathing.

These wounds can’t heal because the only time I’ll stop bruising, bleeding, hurting is when I die and sometimes I want to die, but then I don’t want to because when I’m dead…

…when I’m dead I won’t see you.

by BK TheRealist