all i have are words,
some of them bleeding
this is not merely ink anymore
i'm writing from the wound
the place i'm still
throbbing
aching.
i'm sorry if it's not
beautiful
but this
pain and brokenness
demand to be
shown; felt.
i cannot live this way
my pen is dripping,
my hands are covered
in this burgundy,
blood like ink.
what are words
when there's no hint of the
wound healing?
they are honesty, bravery.
the words won't heal us
but they'll give
the pain
freedom
to be
evident.
Life is often not beautiful, but very raw and brutal. Sometimes we steel ourselves against the knowledge of the horrible ways in which human beings hurt each other. This poem reminds me that there is so much brokenness in the world, that only He who came to bind up The Broken can heal. Be healed, Little Sister.
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