The Hurt (Poetry)

                                won’t heal —
the bandage hid it well enough
disguised its stinging length
and gave the wound some time
to draw on strength
and let memory’s forgiving flesh
grow over — soothe and mend
convince — or even just pretend
emotion’s skin is tough.

The cut went far too deep
and bleeds its pain internally
stitched so tight it cannot weep
reminders — for the world decides
what’s done is done —
the battle’s over. Patches up the mess
gives therapy on how to feel —
as though such instruction overrides
ignores what should be obvious —
some hurts don’t ever heal.