Two and a half scars,
Slightly left from the main vein,
Shallow but bleeding as heavily as bullet-wounds.
I thought I wanted to die,
But now I'm too scared!
I can't make the pumping blood stop,
It pours and soaks the tissues,
Reducing them to a mess of pink-crimson pulp,
Like a heap of tie-dyed skin and innards.
Masking tape like a single stitch,
Beneath the bandage of reddening paper,
It's whiteness lost like innocence.
Eventually the cut dries out and hardens,
Nobody notices the healing process,
Or the bloody mess discarded in the bin.
Just white scabs edged with brown red,
Wire-thin, raising ridges.
Scars heal but the pain never goes away,
So I continue to bleed through my tissue-paper tourniquet.