this isn't like a skinned knee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

blood drips, black,

from the fissure in humanity,

ever-flowing, eternally.

 

a flaw, which no one bothered noticing,

until it was too late

and it creeped upon our surface,

leaving ugly, purple tracks,

marring the beauty

we all started as

and still possess inside of us.

 

there are wounds,

erupting.

 

cries of anguish,

unheard and noiseless,

ricocheting off the plate glass

you put up in hopes of protecting

what was left of your sanity.

 

but they only serve to

magnify the horror

and inflict dribbling lacerations

without instrument.

 

and they send you to a doctor,

though they've no way of helping you,

as there isn't a cure.