The open wound is laughing at me.
Scarlet lips, glittering teeth of bone deep inside,
streaks of blood dulling as they congeal…
I laugh back at it, mouth open wide –
loudly, victoriously, triumphantly.
It is only a flesh wound –
I can master it,
I can manage it,
I can thrive in spite
and feel stronger for it.
Not like the other ones –
dull and habitual aching I feel –
the wounds I can’t reach,
the wounds I can’t heal,
they have nothing they teach –
deep under the skin,
the wounds closed over.
