I realize that I am walking around

a living, breathing

open wound,

and it is not nice to look at.

It is bleeding,

and disgusting,

and revealing all the


and tendons,

and fat inside.

It nauseates me, too.

It is everything I am not supposed to be.

And if you look away

in horror,

I promise

I will understand.

But there are those too

who reach out to me

despite it.

They look me in the eyes

and ask me simple questions

to distract me from

all the pain and

the ugliness inside.

They are not afraid.

Because they know that I

am going into shock

and if the wound does not kill me

that will.

They march into battle with me.

Always at my back.

They will never leave

a woman behind.

They are the brave.

The medics

who carry my limp body

from the battlefield,

all while dodging


and explosions,

and capture


They are the valley

where I rest

between my hard place

and my rock.

Yes, I am an open wound.

And I know it hurts

to see it,

but imagine please,

how it hurts me too.

And if you want to go,

that’s fine

not everyone has

a courage of this kind.

Because when the time comes

that I am again


I need to know that I

am marching with

the ones

who cannot,

will not

be destroyed.