None Suffer as I

To have the knowledge

That I will endlessly suffer

The pain of a thousand wounds situated

Primarily to the heart

While you and yours take only a few

And advance ever so soon

I move on, I grow over you and my wounds

But the scars of said wounds are never complete

Reaching, pulling, tearing, yearning,

To burst at the seams again

Reaching for the very point of the dagger

That laid them open at the start

Only to be forcefully knit reunited

By the efforts of us separately

To live with the suffering, to call it living even, is an existence pained

To be ready and willing to fall into pits

Unknowing and ignorant of what is likely waiting

Hoping to cleanse the injuries before likely infection or unhelped healing

Wishing you catch me at the bottom instead of guiding my hand towards harming myself again

Which is more likely?

The healing I desire or the healing I need?

And which is which?

Pining as the tree that never feels or sees

Another to grow with or interlock its branches to

I feel as if I ask too much

Or do not bring enough to us

And I end up wondering what I could’ve done whilst logically knowing I could do nothing

So I lay burning and yearning,

Dying with the pain of knowing

That you and none suffer

Such as I.