Your wound

Sometimes your eyes wonder to that wound, and your heart will seize like a lime being squeezed to a pulp, and its juice so acidic burns the walls of your stomach. Sometimes your memory, it takes a wrong turn, onto the broken road your feet vowed never to step upon again.

Perhaps you had a wound, a deep, deep one. Though time nursed it, a part still hurts and aches. Back then, curse your mind to still remember, the gnash dripped of poison. Its acrid saliva seeped into the veins, and there was no cure but to hope that when they uttered the words"what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger", they actually meant it.

By and by, the wound gets bigger, as if the Romans were answering Alexander's call. You may have had to bite and zip your lips. Only very few of your friends were aspirin you could reach out and gulp down.

All you needed was time to break those coils, set you free, and drift you away to a new world. The wound, you long for it to slowly heal. Yet sometimes, you throw a glance at it and you feel the poison gurgling at your throat once again, the lime juice still sizzling down your gut, and the twenty pills trying to fight the agony but in vain.

I suppose we all have a dark side to our past, and a wound unseen yet unexplained. Mine still hurts, for my memory ceases not to remember, though I know, or I hope, there may come a time when I peel off the scab.