Open Wounds

I spent two weeks and three surgeries later in the hospital with an infection. I am now just able to sit at my desk and write. This is something I came up with in the hospital.

Open Wounds

They stitched me back but not quite whole,
A seam unraveled in the soul.
The scalpel’s truth, so sharp, so clean—
Left echoes where the pain had been.

A wound may gape, may weep, may bleed,
But healing doesn’t match our need.
The flesh reforms in stubborn time,
While silence clots the inward rhyme.

The skin, once smooth, now knows the blade,
A map of what could not be stayed.
And underneath, the nerves still twitch,
A phantom throb, a fevered glitch.

Sterile rooms and whispered charts,
Can’t mend the torn-up, fragile parts.
Though dressings change and scars will fade,
Some hurts are deeper than a blade.

So let it breathe—this aching space,
The gap between the cut and grace.
For healing isn’t just a close,
It’s living with what never goes.