Some days,
She sits in a dark corner,
Lightens a lampshade,
Just above her head,
And unwraps the bandages,
With lingering care.
With her fingertips,
She brushes the wounds,
Now dried and covered with dead skin.
She tears off the dried layers,
Of blood and skin,
With her fingernails,
And with a sharp-edged dagger,
She pokes on the wound,
Until blood oozes,
From her hidden vessels,
Drop by drop at first,
That turns into streams,
Which flows down her body,
Staining her skin.
Then she pulls out a carving knife,
And cleaves off the layer,
Of dead skin and dried out blood,
Along with red flesh,
On the utmost top.

For days,
She lies,
In her dark corner,
Watching the blood gushing out,
Feeling her tears running down,
Until they dry out into stains.
She wraps the bandages back,
Stands on her feet,
And walks out in to the world,
With her hidden wounds.
Her wounds from the falls and bolts,
Were long dead and gone.
But the ghosts they left behind,
Guides her dagger and knife.
And she limps ahead,
With self-inflicted wounds.


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