Processes

I am bleeding out onto the carpet, a shattered mess.

And I will never be whole again.

Your shaking hands clasps mine with a tenderness almost cruel to how fast you throw me out.

I join the others like me and we drink to the memory of the days of wholiness.

I am an open wound disgusting and ever festering but I wear my wound like a badge of honor.

It says” look how hard I fought, look at what I lost”.

I never see you again and I am still not whole.

My badge has lost its shine, but now nearly a scab.

No one like scabs.

They are dried and make others uncomfortable.

No one wants to hear about your scabs.

Listen to me.

I pick and pick until I rip the scab open.

I remind you that there is still pink flesh underneath.

I am still sensitive, raw and healing.

No one likes scabs.

I am a scar now.

Still unhealed and forever marked.

I will never be whole again.

I am okay.