Walking Wounded

"How many scars did you have to justify because you loved the person holding the knife"

I heard this recently, and while not my own, these words struck me.

I have been ruminating on this a lot, more than just today. Those people are -still- holding crimson edge knives.

Those wounds still bleed, and just as soon as I think I've staunched the bleeding of one, another breaks open.

Hemorrhaging.

But the wounds aren't clean and are warm to the touch, Feverish in all the ways I used to be.

Where have the balm-gentle caresses gone?

No more soothing of my furrowed brow.

These hands

My hands

Were never good

For anything but comforting the hurts of others.