Wound

Once,
just once,
you said something to me that burned,
and I don’t imagine you remember it,

but it cut into me

the way an early, unwanted limb
is cut from a tree,
and leaves a shape in the bark
until finally
the skin closes over it.
You can’t see it from the outside,
but on the inside it’s there,
always,
this open wound
you left with an unthinking comment.

Or worse,

you were thinking,

when you made it,
and so perhaps you meant it,
even if you would take it back now
to see the damage it made.
Perhaps though,
it is my fault that it hurts,
that it still hurts,
that I never told you.
Perhaps I should have forgiven you

long before now,

as you have done for me,
with all my careless slights
and slings
and slices,
all the bruises
and breaks
and blood
I have gifted you
without meaning to.

I’ll never know.
I’ll never tell.

I am left with that hidden un-scar,
twisted
tighter
than a clockspring with teeth,
biding my time,
until I come down to
motionless
dust.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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