I’m not sure if this strictly fits poetry but I was reflecting on a choice of weather I ought to go to therapy or not. When I was reflecting I felt I should write my thoughts down and to my ear they sound melodious. Any criticism and thoughts are welcome
I carry an invisible wound, inflicted when I was young. Over and over, it was torn open by a brother’s hand, dirt and disease thrown in by the fistful. Years have passed, yet it persists—festering, aching as deeply as the day it was made. It oozes, dripping tears from my fractured soul.
The doctor tells me the only cure is to tear the scab away, pour a stinging tonic into the depths, and scrub it clean. The very thought terrifies me. Touching the wound sends waves of pain through me, yet I know this is the only way to stop the rot. Maybe, just maybe, I can save a hand instead of losing the whole arm.
But to heal, I must feel it all again—perhaps worse than before. I fear that once it’s cleaned, I’ll no longer feel empty, but I won’t feel whole either.
Shall I let this festering wound tether me to the time, place, and pain of its origin? Or will I endure the destruction of healing, risking agony for the chance at freedom?
submitted by /u/punisher72n
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