I have never cut myself.
Never dragged a butter-knife across my flesh
Just to watch the red liquid trickle along my pale skin.
I expect it to be warm, the blood, and
Rather salty to the taste.

I'm not the greatest salt lover.

I have never laid in bed
Staring at the barren land of my ceiling,
Picturing how beautiful the lusty pink glow
Around the scabbed wound
Would look.

I've always been a blue person myself.

I have never stared at another's blistered limbs
Desperate to get home and do the same
Even though my life,
Where his had begun sinking underwater,
Had hit the sea bed and started digging.

But that's my business.

Yet I am no stranger to the blade,
For under my thin protection
Runs a yellow disease that greens
And bubbles to the surface, breaking the barrier,
Before erupting.
Over 100. For 4 years.
And once before,
I have tried to dig it out of me only to find
That it will never work.
That I will have a permanent dent on my torso.
That it will just hurt more.

I have fallen out of enough trees,
I have cut myself on enough broken glass,
I have tripped over enough kerbs,
I have lost enough people,
I have bumped my head enough times,
And have the scars to tell me...

That unintentional bruises, cuts, chips and hurts are enough.