Victim

I'm fine. It hurts but I'm fine. I'm limping and the pain is cutting into me, and every bleeding piece of me is staining my clothes with crimson colored emotions. Love, hate and my own sanity all over the concrete. But I'm fine. The feelings will fade, at least thats what they tell me. I'm fine, any weakness that is in me is my own doing so I can solve, suture myself. I can mend myself, fend for myself. I am an open ended book and only I write the pages in. I'm fine. Never mind the bleeding, the crawling across the cement, cold enough to remind me of every ache that I hold inside me, and gritty enough to make a few of its own cuts. A few people offer hands and some I take but they always pull too hard, oh that ache in me. It burns, it stings and it stinks. It's an open wound anyone can see from a mile away. I'm fine, what a joke. More like I'm torn up. In the head, in the heart, and my soul only knows how I'm going to heal this time. I've had the heart burned out of me, lines of blood well up on my arms as I try to see inside myself and let a little bit of myself free. The corrupted bits and pieces that don't ever seem to find their way free of my skin. But I'll fix it myself, my arms are broken but I don't need your help. I'll just snap my arms back into place and create my own makeshift splints. I'm not fine, but I'll get there. On my own, I can do it on my own. Without you, I'll do it alone even if I have to die inside trying. End up crying if anyone even tenderly reaches out to take my hands, curl into myself so I'm untouchable. Like an armadillo in traffic. My defense is sound, and I'll be fine on my own crossing the traffic lines.