The Wound

The Wound

Blending in the open sores
of my once so porous memory
is the crude of an unfinished relationship

Stirring in the puss
squeamish yellow and rank
is the finale with no ending

Brittle film over the wound
is just picked away
falling to the ground in an already decomposing mass

There can be no scar
where there is no closure
and there can be no healing
where there is only

December 13, 1992
Tressa Lee Breen

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