The scab
Was
healing,
Slowly,
Tortuously,
torturously.
It
itched like hell.
But I
had to discard,
Disregard,
Try to
pay no attention
To the
affliction -
Like
trying not to think
About
pink elephants.
Silence
as salve.
Fucking
Facebook.
Five
French words:
"Les rêves étaient très doux"
Translation?
"The
dreams were very sweet."
The real
translation?
"I'm
dreaming about
All
the fun
We
had on the boat
Last
weekend."
Wow, the
pain.
Panic
attack
Meets
heart attack
Meets
primal scream
Meets
gut punch
Meets a
knee to the nads.
Five
French words
Which
could have been
Written
for me
(And
kind of had been,
Though
it was only
In our
dreams),
Ripped
that scab off
With the
fury
Of
butchery.
The wave
crashed.
I
breathed not.
No
ignoring this.
But like
a bandaid
Pulled
off in a blinding flash,
The
miasma of misery
Left
just a scar.
It won't
need to scab over again.
I hope.
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