As I picked up the rose to hand to you
The thorn pricked my finger.
The blood would not stop;
It was never-ending.
As much as I tried to bandage my wound
The blood still poured down, down, and down.
No matter what I did or how I did it
The endless pool of blood decided to live with me.
There was no communication, no touch, no sound, not even temptation
But I knew I was not alone.
My wound that piled the blood rapidly was with me.
My wound became so close to me
And we did not want to move from the bed.
Under the covers shaking, sobbing
It was just me and my wound.
Isolation, just me and my wound.
The clocks would tick and the days would go by
I got out of bed to experience life.
Even though my wound did not want to.
And the day I started living
Was the day my wound did not bleed.
The day I knew I was going to be okay
Was the day my wound completely healed.
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