I lay at night wanting to ask Time:
"Do you actually heal all wounds?"
Because I now walk with a limp
I mask it with an invisible cane
That no one can see
No professional therapy will help
Only a forced belief in The Book
I talk to myself
I reply back with answers I hope are not true
I can't talk to others
For fear of rumors
I've become duller
Yet more aware
Life seems more drawn out
Less consequential
I've realized
You can't hurt if your emotions have been cauterized
