The Wound. As K. calls it. This wound which is never sealed back, healed, forgotten. It's still open, raw and painful. Even more so that I am here alone with all these bloodied wounds, cuts and bruises on my face in this Berlin hotel room.
The pain... It is about you. My soul screams, about you, about what I would have done for you, given my soul for you, and what did I get back? Nothing, just few hours of 'affection' and after that, after my allocated slot, nothing. Silence. Neglect.
I loved you. And all I got back was pain. And got this wound even more sore and doleful to bear. This wound that I bring out on my flesh and soul, trying no one to see. But they can, they are not stupid the people. They can see my pain, in my eyes, in my words, in the way I go silent when they mention your name.
My Wound...
The pain... It is about you. My soul screams, about you, about what I would have done for you, given my soul for you, and what did I get back? Nothing, just few hours of 'affection' and after that, after my allocated slot, nothing. Silence. Neglect.
I loved you. And all I got back was pain. And got this wound even more sore and doleful to bear. This wound that I bring out on my flesh and soul, trying no one to see. But they can, they are not stupid the people. They can see my pain, in my eyes, in my words, in the way I go silent when they mention your name.
My Wound...
{Although this was originally written back in November 2008 I still 'cherish' this piece as one of my best ones}
