Old wounds

wire

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,

Pointing.

“Just this.

May I take it from you?”

Somehow that seems

Friendlier,

More carrying my burdens,

Than cutting into me.

And this tight protectiveness

Loosens

A little

For your gentle hands.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s