I am so sorry. I don't know what to say.

That's all they say. That's all they know how to say. As you nurse the wounds left by stubborn barbs, twisted and torn loose and left quietly bleeding, they wound it again. Blunt, palm-flat, accidental. But wounded nonetheless. A sharp sting atop the throbbing swollen welts upon your flesh, pinstruck striations red and visible. And what would they say, anyway? No poultice or ointment a satisfying dressing for these wounds, hooks torn away, red and blackening. When you are rent away from yourself, who can mend it.? Who would try? Sweat and tears dry salty and course but the blood is still warm and wet. Shining, shining, like the light through fabric, stars in the night sky. Burning, burning. Close your eyes and stare at nothing. Open them and stare at nothing. Look within and still see nothing. Feel yourself and feel like nothing. Plant a seed and pray it grows.