Freshly made…
Freshly new open wound…

Oh how I welcome that smell.
With a quick motion the liquid is released.
That blade stained with redness as the wound pulses.

What is left on my arm is the same left n my heart of years past.
For them only to fade, for yet not fully heal.
For these scars are left for reminder of the pain brought to my body.

Freshly new open wound…
Freshly made…
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Another older poem from last year