Layer and plaster

Around the fragile parts of what is vasting, of where is drowning, there are boundaries crumble where the ache is acute because even when pain comes in tides the plaster is unable to cover the injury, to keep the harm from sinking deeper.

In the garden of thorns a groan of pain grows in the dark twisting through self-esteem, carrying the broken pieces in the veins despite the ruin and the blood, wrapping like ropes around the heart.

That’s why I never learned to release the shadows, to breathe through the wound because whenever I struggle to heal the pain vast enough to swallow breath, how a layer so full of plaster trying to hide a wound where it carved deep into the soul.