i picked the scabs off my wounds
and made them bleed anew,
never allowing them to heal so easily.
i watched in amazement as new blood
drips and smears my skin.
i watched abrasions,
particularly the deep ones,
fascinated at how they can hurt.
i loved the pain that comes
with the cut.
i never cried at my gashes.
i still have scars from all the carelessness
of my life,
and i wear them proud,
like a veteran
who survived the war.
i come home to my waiting bed,
my mother’s pillow
my comfort through all the tears,
as i hide the pain in gauze of bravery.
i have been courageous.
i have never chosen my battles,
because i have always believed
that every single one of them is worth the ache.
here i am now, choosing yet again
the ecstasy of pain.
here i am, choosing the beautiful agony
of choosing to love you.

for j.e.
*111614

We never made it to the sea,
You and I.
I loved so deep that it left a scar.
The wreckage of my flesh,
Weeps crimson tears.
My sweet purgatory.
My damnation.
Cutting deeper —
Without price.
Without pain.
We never made it to the sea,
But I am drowning.

If he was just the same as you
the decision wouldn't matter
as much as it presently burns
standing in the ashes, silent and single
Would you
ask me what I would say
already knowing?
Already watching my steam rise in the rain
beyond the windows

Flick the flame.
**** you.
I'll **** me.
Revelers of temporary
It's all right,
okay?
Up and shot me--
Didn't need that vein, anyway.
Punctured and ruptured,
expecting me to drown

and with what blood to bleed?

Art heals the creator
like scar tissue, sealing
cracks of a broken past,
Red-raw against pale skin
For the world to see that
You're recovering whatnot,
Till time fades these wounds
To nothing
a little makeup can't hide,
So we blend back in, to
Where we never belonged,
An find our identity within
Public display of deformation,
Striped naked, to express self
awareness, no more gruesome
enough to repulse, nor normal
enough to ignore the silver line
Between trauma and wrinkle;
scars fade, not vanish, but
keep us together regardless.

She soldiers on
with a limp
from an old gunshot wound
that put a stammer in her soul.

She hesitates upon standing,
and often winces at an over-hastened step.
Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up.
Like being trapped
in a cage made of rubber bands
she is limited, but can force her way
in some direction.

She wont tell you how she got it
nor even where it really is.
The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.

My money's on somewhere else.

She is dissolved in some solution
made with three parts carbolic acid
two parts toothsome regret
one part
pure concentrated time.

If I could pick her up and carry her
I would
but she
would scream, and kick, and holler
I know. So I'll let her limp
It's her way.

I don't mean to be trigger happy.

Why call my name
in that melodious voice,
when you are going to use that
same voice to leave me?

Why hold my hand
with that miraculous touch,
when you are going to use that
same touch to dump me?

Why kiss my lips
in that mesmerising twist,
when you are going to use that
same twist to rip me?

Why raise my hopes
with that mistaken strength,
when you are gonna to use that
same strength to crush me?

Why?

Why do what you did
To treat me,
when all you wanted to
Is to wound me.

a writer writes,
to ameliorate the pain
be it holy or profane
be it balanced or insane
with affection or disdain

Every word written wipes away a tear
every line, refuge from fear
a sort of self medication
a self reparation
a hopeful initiation
from a hopeless situation

every couplet,
a bleeding wound healed
every stanza,
a memory sealed

a writer writes,
to begin again
to leave behind the pain
a release from a binding chain
and that familiar refrain
in vain..

and so the writer writes..
Again..
    and Again..