How I used to
long to open
my wounds
to every stranger,
a time came when
my story would
mock at me.
Bedridden I am
too scared to
view my wound,
leave alone
opening it to myself
in complete
submission to
pandora of pain.
Wounds of romance
simmer only when
you sit down
and unbundle them.
They are free from pain
but not remorse,
mostly masculine in gender.
Feminine bundles are
so tightly done,
that remorse smothers
in a new knot.
Male ones give
bulk space,
have loose careless bind,
possessions spill over in a nudge.
Old stories
itch to come alive
even when pain
is not for real.
