Or better yet, the feeling of loss.
Loss of freedom
And it tells you it's all your fault.
Sense of guilt.
Sense of hate.
The wrath of the shame has no boundaries.
in the cycle of fault
Day after day
Because the things that used to be ok are no longer alright
And every action feels like its pulling at your seams
Sometimes, it feels like blood is gushing from the wounds
And your skin feels swollen and sore from the stitches
But they aren't really there
And you know that
But it doesnt make them any less real
you start to cover the stitches with neosporin
So that they won't itch you during the day
And sometimes you almost forget they are there
Until someone gets too close and rips one open with a simple hug or touch on the arm...
And the need to blame someone for this-
It burns like a fire. And you can feel it right below the surface of the skin-
It's hot and it begins to bubble.
Because I feel it, too.