When I was a child I picked at scabs, entertained by the idea of bearable pain.

I've been told that
these little things we do take roots in us
(Funny, considering that roots hold the soil of the earth together
and keep it from spiriting away)

And I was thinking:
Maybe that's the reason
I keep picking at the cuts you left,
the reason the bleeding still hasn’t quite stopped,
and the reason my scars have darkened in your terrible likeness.

I followed footsteps and a strong voice
Through a tunnel that turned my words 
into smoky, indiscriminate echoes.

I followed the sway of any icy wind
 that prostrated my lashes

and froze my tears in their ducts