Take a sharp knife.
Slice down the middle.
Pour salt in-between.
Let the floodgates open.
No amount of analgesic
will mask the pain inside.
The loss,
the wound,
the overwhelming sense of grief.
Desperate to live,
but it’s hard with a chunk of flesh
nowhere to be seen.
Ripped clean,
leaving a gaping, blooded hole.
Stem the flow
and stitch the cut,
the torture chamber, empty.
Not today.
No painkillers,
just pain.
Feel the hurt
and continue to mourn
the passing.

© Antony N Britt