The open wound
had already begun to fester.
Clammy hands
gripped an old canvas coat,
a now small body
wracked with sobs.
Emotional anguish battling
a rotting hole.
To feel without love,
to feel without really feeling,
an absence of knowing
what you don’t know.
Only made up
of a secluded wound,
never to close.
That takes,
and as your legs cave,
promising never to give.