Chibuzor Bonaventure
Healing
The tragic part of healing is babysitting it.
You stay alone webbed into the routine of nursing and cuddling red patches of wounds.
Like a spider’s prey, you are caught sighing away the possibilities of every adventure that
Those sticky silks of chains cocoon you from.
Die, you must to live again— a realization that sinks in like the pointed end of a knife.
And should any god save you in the end
Be sure you will only get caught up by the whirling flies allured to your breathing carcass
So, die you must!