The Wounded Me

The wound had festered,
Until it reached the surface,
There it was open,
The air stung,
How I did shriek!
Unable to believe such harm had been,
Was of, was in
But it could not be unseen,
And beckoning alone would not heal,
And so I gathered gauze of aid,
And let in the attendants for my mind and soul,
To dress the painful opening that was now exposed,
And it promised not to close,
To be stubborn as cells stitched together a flesh bandage for the wound,
And it was painful,
The knowing, the being, the healing.

Time passed,
Much time passed,
And I look back on an invisible scar in disbelief,
How was that me?
Who was that me?
The wound is closed,
But the memory of phantom pain shocks my mind once in a while,
And strange photos,
Strange writings,
Strange thoughts of things not as they really were
come back to me,
To me,
To the me that is whole,
But who remains vigilant,
For the feared return of the wounded me
that once resided here.

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