I have this wound on my chest,
Though it’s been sutured,
It feels as if it splits back open each and every night,
Reminding me of how everything could have been avoided
And how everything really is my fault.
It bleeds every so often,
Just enough to stain;
It hurts enough to make me double over,
But not enough to kill.
Tonight, I wish for it to finish me off,
But it won’t...
Because heartache isn’t fatal.
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