The words-
pen to page, pull up nothing, just like yesterday.
Day before that, all but forgot about the pen, the words,
Forgot about the Feelings-
must be out of touch with
or did I
let them get so close,
let them undo the sentences,
those ink-blot bandages
wrapped tight around
the graceless lacerations,
Rorschach's mask muddying
the face I could not bear to recognize?
When the words come,
they come in quick as silver, sharp as a needle
and stitch themselves between
sense and skin.
The wound becomes "I am wounded,"
removed from the reality in its quotation marks.
They don't tell you healing feels like losing your best friend.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
The words-
pen to page, pull up nothing, just like yesterday.
Day before that, all but forgot about the pen, the words,
Forgot about the Feelings-
must be out of touch with
or did I
let them get so close,
let them undo the sentences,
those ink-blot bandages
wrapped tight around
the graceless lacerations,
Rorschach's mask muddying
the face I could not bear to recognize?
When the words come,
they come in quick as silver, sharp as a needle
and stitch themselves between
sense and skin.
The wound becomes "I am wounded,"
removed from the reality in its quotation marks.
They don't tell you healing feels like losing your best friend.
