Wounded

Like the quick hot
sting of bandages
ripping off a wound,
I'll say my piece.

I'll bite a hole
in my lip, wince,
and gasp back tears.

I've done the
dragging aching burn.
Hung to the torture
to hang on to the past.
Not this time.

I can bear a thousand
burdens,
but I WILL NOT carry you.
Won't even be your crutch.
Walk out.

I chose this opportunity
so I am the one
to stand my ground,
arms crossed.
So the satisfaction
of the SLAM of the door
could leave me in MY space,
MY home,
to tend my new pink,
tender skin-
marveling at the lack
of a scar.