The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


38. Amputation

In a bottled up rage, I attacked my canvas with my paintbrush, focusing on my soon-to-be masterpiece.

I’d kept it in too long, and my paintbrush demolished my canvas into a beautiful deformity.

The reality was that I’d cut too deep, and all of the scars on my arms screamed at me, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

So I asked the doctor to amputate my arms, and he did.

But there were still wine-stained lines on my thighs spelling out your name all over.

So I asked the doctor to amputate my legs, and he did.

There was not much left of me, and even though my arms were gone, I could still hurt myself with rude remarks.

So I asked the doctor to sew my lips together, and he did.

But that didn’t take the cruel thoughts out of my mind.

You left deep scars and discoloured bruises on my heart, and I began to think there was no solution.

But again, I asked the doctor to remove my heart from my body, and he did.

I’m lying on a cold slab in the morgue, and there are a million un-mendable scars in the world.


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