the shallow ones hurt the most
skin that panics too quickly
the shallow ones are the sharpest
blood in rebellion, tiny red slaves fleeing the building
the shallow ones, they paint a picture
histamines, out for a play date
its what you cannot see that aches and burns
the hidden ones, strong and deep
buried in time
far too nasty to consciously feel
far to difficult to possibly heal
blood is afraid to pour over
afraid that she will never stop running...
and flowing...
like a rabid animal during springtime
its the hidden ones that tell a story
always present, never seen
the deepest ones make your insides
.
.
.
.
bleed