open wound
I hold it so tight that it pierces through me almost completely, they say: put some pressure on it and the flow will stop shortly–i fear i am carried away by its force, still after eons, the impact has passed, over and over, has hit me so long ago, I can barely separate the memory from its vibration in my dreams, in my skeleton. it‘s red everywhere, past the membrane, it’s red on red needing stitches, no lullabies will help, no asking for relief in a flimsy poem like this.
Alex, I’m sorry that I completely misspelled your name. But I really did mean you. Your poem is really inspiring!
Amit, Open Wound has a powerfully tragic beauty, the more so for its stark beauty. I feel it’s a fine example of minimalism at its. Beautiful work, my friend.