Not the Doctor
I am open, a dull-knife gash
into which you delve, scrubbing
dirty nails against guts
to feel every twitch and quiver -
soft tissue framed by more of the ragged same.
You know the color of my blood
and that of those who've come from me,
tasted the copper of my death,
and the sharp scent of its coming.
But you, you are well
bandaged wounds covered,
held back under layers of
sterile gauze
and I have outgrown
the game of doctor.
this is pure crap - feel free to shred it :)
Poetry
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