Bleeder

It would serve me well to pay attention to the lessons my mother taught me.

"The more you pick the scab, the worse the scar will be."

Still, I am driven to be my own undoing.

I can't pretend it's not there, that I don't care.

That the hurt never happened. 

Skin may heal, pink and new

But the scabs of the heart seldom do.

They grow and fester

Become wounds to the mind

So while we may go days thinking everything's fine

We're doomed to bleed again.

Natasha Head