I read it to myself
And I shiver.
The raw wound in my chest shivers
Sends shocks of pain.
I grab my chest, half expecting it to be real
It isn’t, as my hand finds my chest in normal shape
And it isn’t that kind of pain either
This is more ethereal.
It’s roots branching out to moments
An entangled swirl of guilt, pleasure and pain. Laughter and crying. Regrets.
The hand massages the chest
It feels normal but seems in dispare.
The hand pats it and the mouth soothes it
“Now now “
