I had torn open a wound;
Stitches made of gold
Medicine smeared of silver.
When it bled, it bled sounds;
Sounds of old people talking,
Sounds of young ones panting,
Voices of bright and dark colors,
Voices of you and me.
This wound,
This wound was mine and yours,
A depth measured by the words we fired at each other.
It had healed, maybe,
But I had a blade,
A brand new edge,
And I hacked at the golden threads,
I washed the silver away.
Here it is,
The open wound,
The loud, bleeding wound.
…I’m no doctor,
I’m just an assistant,
A slave,
A slave to my mind.
thebloomingjade 