Old wounds Poem, by Salem, at My poetic side

I began to participate

Yet the pain lingers

Like a paper cut

Or a rolled ankle

Inconvenient and agonising

In opposition

To the blade that plunged into my chest

At the tender age of 8

And the blade broke off

And I grew around it

But the sharp metal

Still resides inside

I began to participate

And it didn’t get easier

But I knew to dress my wounds

Instead of prodding

At the scar that protrudes over my lungs

And wondering

If I slice myself open

Once more

Perhaps it’d be the last time

I’d feel the breeze

On my insides

Old wounds