Triage In Region Three

There are things in me.
Things I can’t write – not yet.
Too painful.

Writing these things is good.
Good like tweezing a bullet out.
Good and feels good are not the same.

Pain is living death.
Opening wound can take life.
My own.

“Leave bullets where they be,” I say.

Skin grows up over them.
Scars.
Too many.

complicit. Me.

Pragmatic.

Cover up.

Protecting you.
Protecting me.
But you’re not protecting me.

Poison leaks.

“Extract it, damn it, now.” I yell at me.

Tweezin’ it out.
Still. So still.
Breathing in. Breathing out.

Forgotten breath.
In and out.
Free.

triage. Triage.
Clot in region three.
It’s toxic, the metal object within me.

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2 thoughts on “Triage In Region Three

  1. Terribly beautiful, Katie. I have a friend who has suffered a life of horrible pain. She told me that one day, when a caring friend truly listened to her, it began to leak out. Then it just exploded. She compared her depression and pain to an untreated, infected wound. When it finally burst, it was stinky, ugly, messy, and painful, but that began the healing process for my friend. That image stuck with me and it came back as I read your poem. Thank you for exposing this so eloquently. You are one brave and beautiful woman.

    Liked by 1 person

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