The wound

Imagine if you had a wound, a wide one, like the skin had been freshly stripped off. It’s coated in yellow and clear pus. Imagine the wound was constantly being stretched and touched and never allowed to heal. Imagine it’s inside of you. Imagine it’s a self-regenerating wound that your body’s antibodies constantly attack to keep red raw and inflamed. Imagine you could feel the pain inside, but not see the wound, just it’s blood and remnants and your imagination playing tricks. Imagine if no-one else could see the wound. Imagine sitting down, being paralysed by shooting pains. Imagine you are unable to move. You grimace. Imagine someone sees your grimace and assumes you are not friendly. Imagine being reminded every day of your own mortality in all its gore. Imagine it won’t let you sleep. Imagine being scared and unable to explain. Imagine the wound being on the outside. I can’t.

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