The Wound
Blending in the open sores
of my once so porous memory
is the crude of an unfinished relationship
Stirring in the puss
squeamish yellow and rank
is the finale with no ending
Brittle film over the wound
is just picked away
falling to the ground in an already decomposing mass
There can be no scar
where there is no closure
and there can be no healing
where there is only
infection
December 13, 1992
Tressa Lee Breen
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