Old wounds


You’ve poked an old wound, God.

“This,” you say,

“I want to heal this.”

But it’s an old one

And I’ve had it nearly as long as I can remember.

Another prod,

And my defences rise,

Pulling tight against assault,

No matter how gentle,

Regardless of the sour toxins building within.

“Will you let me heal this?”

You gently ask.

But I flinch back.

This wound

Is normal to me,

Part of who I am.

If you cut out this wound,

You cut out a part of me,

And as much as I don’t want

The pain,

The bitterness,

The sour tang of old memories,

It is home

And familiar.

But still you stand there,


“Just this.

May I take it from you?”

Somehow that seems


More carrying my burdens,

Than cutting into me.

And this tight protectiveness


A little

For your gentle hands.


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