Anguish

My cuts and bruises are special As the Devil loves them all. I mean not to sound edgy You see, my body has some gull.

It never heals my scrapes Even if I tape them shut. The moment that it's taken off It's clear I have no luck.

Days and weeks and months and years And yet they never change. And while they range in size and shape The pain is all the same.

Even worse, they always bleed No matter what I do. Warm crimson flows out when I wake Seemingly on cue.

Pity is not what I desire But simply a cure. For I fear, if this perseveres My life will be but tears.