I expect to make a better version of this in the future. Until inspiration strikes me, I will stick with this draft. Very cliché, you know what they say about cliché. Its cliché for a reason.
Open Wound
Flesh is exposed to poisonous oxygen that gives life.
The red, pink, stickiness,
Vulnerable meat.
Not yet dead skin cells,
Or pools of pus,
Be a dunce to touch that stuff,
like needles prick the surface of the skin.
So physical, but yet all psychology.
All in your head,
All in your bed.
Different shades of red,
If you’re still bleeding, theres no need to plaster it up, at least you are feeling.
Its all in your head, theres no waste,
its all just feelings.
Just feelings, and hormones and foolish teenage love.
You are an open wound I can’t help but pick.
