if my wounds could speak

I, the wound of unworthiness

was born out of distorted love

put into action

generation after generation.

Time and time again

I built a home in broken hearts

claimed the sharpest piece as my own

and inflicted pain on the softest parts of souls

just to leave them empty and engulfed

in a fog of illusive protection.

You see in order to fester, I wrap myself in safety

and wear it as a disguise that pleases

the unawakened human eye-

a lot of people don’t notice me because of that.

I’m a wound that doesn’t take risks,

a wound that avoids new beginnings,

a wound that asks for constant reassurance

but believes

none of it.

Categories Creative Writing, Poetry, ProseTags , , , , , , , , , ,

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