The Wound

Some days it catches my scent, then it's on my trail all day, driving me over the edge of the steepest cliff, clipping at my fingers as I cling on, holding onto composure. 

I feel open and raw to the world, people speak and I sting, my mind is a damn to the floods of emotion and it aches with the strain. 

Those days fighting back tears for ten hours out in the world, while people look into my eyes unknowingly.  How can this be filling me up to the brim and my eyes remain clean of it? 

I take care of myself methodically, like my whole being is one big wound. What is my medicine? Dim light, Ian Curtis, hot tea, washing the sweat of panic from my skin with something that smells sugary and comes in a smiling bottle. 

I remind myself that I am scar tissue, closed up and safe, but there are days, there will always be days when the weather just makes me ache. 

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