I dreamed
my scars were white ropes around my wrists.
When I rubbed them
they would lift
like rain-worms rolling off
pavement; beneath lived maggots.
I didn't know scars could do that, I thought,
rot you from the inside,
give birth to new life.
I pressed a squirmer from my flesh,
cut it in half with my nail's edge.
It hurt to be the worm,
it hurt to be its meat.
It hurt to expunge its eating greed.
A good host grieves departing guests
like a cemetery grieves ghosts.
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 8:35 AM UTC
I dreamed
my scars were white ropes around my wrists.
When I rubbed them
they would lift
like rain-worms rolling off
pavement; beneath lived maggots.
I didn't know scars could do that, I thought,
rot you from the inside,
give birth to new life.
I pressed a squirmer from my flesh,
cut it in half with my nail's edge.
It hurt to be the worm,
it hurt to be its meat.
It hurt to expunge its eating greed.
A good host grieves departing guests
like a cemetery grieves ghosts.
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