On the underside of my left pointer finger
in the crease of the second knuckle
there is a papercut.
It has grown.
Gaping like my ragged and weary soul.
In it, there is dust and dirt.
Like the things that fill my heart.
Infectious like a smile.
Red like freshly kissed lips.
Its throbbing pain doesn't just go away,
can't be ignored.
So pesky, this papercut,
like the events of my life.
It's funny to think that my papercut
has become a symbol in itself.
Ripped skin torn through to inner flesh.
Brokenness a slowly shriveling infliction.
Maybe this papercut will never heal
like me.
Hope beyond hope that the blood will clot
and the skin will close
and my body will be whole again.
That I will be whole again.
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