I Write Poetry

Time. Am I to mend in time?
But how when there are no places
where your words will not find me,
where your face does not appear,
where my heart stops racing,
where I can not erase you.
There is no sanctuary as you
are ingrained in every part of me.
I claw at my chest,
sinking my fingers in,
desperate to extract you,
pulling myself out from inside,
but to no avail.
I am left only
with stained hands
and a wound
that will not
heal with time.