Blood drips and drops,
Then seeps, dark and silky,
Into the water; it’ll never wash off.
The wound looks pathetic,
Prosthetic even, yet
It’s real, and the pain is real.
What games people play just to feel
Something, to come out of the abyss,
And back into body, this used,
Abused body, rejected and worn,
Not enough, or too much.
Old news. Old wounds,
Close to the bone, but restrained.
Enough is enough, cries for help,
Tended to by doctor, soldier
Or Indian chief. A new story stitched,
A new wound etched
Onto the fabric of life.