I’ve written poems
in the blood of fresh wounds
smearing my pain into art for everyone to see
it’s how I cope
it can’t be too bad
if I’m still telling it to strangers
right?
but then I stall out sometimes
write something just as
red and honest and painful as usual
but I can’t let anyone see
can’t bring myself to put that little piece of pain
out into the open
those are the wounds that fester
oozing poetry if pressed
but mostly just causing discomfort
in some deeply damaged part of my psyche
festering [poem]
Larissa Lee 