Operation

My frustration boils over, and burns my skin. I don’t know when I’ll be better because I don’t know how to heal. I’ve cut my chest open and I can see my heart bleeding, but I don’t know how to find the bleed, and I wouldn’t know how to sew it up once I’ve found it. I’m a pile of flesh and bones cut open in front of the world. The tools are in my hands, but the pain is too unbearable to fix the problem by myself. Can’t I just be put to sleep while someone more qualified does the fixing for me? They gave me a scalpel, but all I’ve done is further the damage. The constant slicing creates the freshest of wounds. I’ve covered my wounds with a hospital gown, and nobody seems to notice.

I’m broken.

I’m hurting.

I am in pain.

Yet, everyone ignores it, and pretends that the gown I’m wearing is a sundress.

 

By: J. Brock

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