#scab
Your name wrung
between the lines of
fresher tender cuts.
Brushing a slower finger
over dusty pages,
disturbing untold stories
that was long untouched.
Your name is
the tap-tap of hammer nails
and the crimson consummator.
The barricading name,
of the mesmeric temple of apologies
molded by unequivocal agony and anger
lying in the bleak moor
laced with your remnants.
My mind is left shambled on the floor,
shards of memories
now leaking as exudate
am I being inflamed?
If I were to paint this across the canvas,
it’d be red, blue then purple
a galaxy with mismatched constellations
on a rippled fabric of night skies.
If I were to ink you to paper,
tracing you in black
you’d diffuse, cry and leak
into a pool of red,
dripping at the edge of the paper.
You are the cactus
pricking with every temptation.
The one engrained in my figmentation
wrapped in lessons
coloring the pigmentation of my skin
with various hues.
You are the open wound
with the fabricated scab.
You are the name
that rings inside my head,
echoing through my memories
trembling shakes, tremors
through the cronies
widening the past a little
more within me.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
Poetry is the open wound
From which the **** of our minds seeps
Infecting the world with it's vitriol
Spreading it's disgusting disease
A scab that never heals, as we pick
And pick away at an itch, letting the injury
Ooze and weep, always there to remind us
We can never resist perverse temptation
And rid us of the addiction that will always
Cause us pain, so open your minds
Let them breathe and pen.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 3:10 PM UTC
I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.
I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.
A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.
I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.
I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.
I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Your expectations were to high.
Your wound had a scab torn off by the unbearable truth.
A wounded animal like my wounded conscious mind.
The injury gone but the threat and fear still aware.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
you want to stick it in me ,,
break me
open
so that i leak .
it's boiling hot,
and
you wield a blade
that does not
cut skin .
but still i bleed ,
and pick each scab .
i will **** you before you ever see me
open ,
spread,
beg for me.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
I envy your self-love, your ability to know that everything right now is how it is supposed to be
When you think of me, you think of good times and happy memories
When I think of you, I too cherish the times we spent together
But I'm also reminded of how lonely my life has now become
The substance in your life makes it so effortless for you to move on
Substance that I, myself, lack
And it makes me wonder
Am I really in love with you
Or do I just want you to make me feel whole.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
I like the colour purple,
as it blooms across my skin,
The delicate spread of lavender,
dappled with yellow and green.
I like the smell of iron,
of copper pennies and blood
As it oozes form a scab
or drips from a fresh cut.
I like the feel of my ribs,
the bones beneath my skin,
The curve of my skull under my cheek,
Or the joints of every knuckle.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
You left a scab which
Took too long to form,
And my healing heart
Was all dead and worn.
You have no right
To come back and do this,
Checking me off
Like an item on your To-Do list,
What happened to me
Was awful and cruel,
And now "never trust"
Is my number one rule.
So you have no right
To come back and say,
"Oops, I'm sorry
I treated you that way",
For shallow words do
Nothing when spoken,
To a newly healed heart,
Not ready to be broken.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
you got mad at me for photographing the scabs on your arm
it exists as evidence - you’ve bled, you hate it
as if it made you less of a man
regretting every time you display affection
tell me how you really feel
tell me how you’ve fallen
as if it made you less of a man
baby, you’re my man
and i documented your old blood
because its the closest i’ve gotten
to seeing your insides
the closest i’ve been
to truly believing
that you have a heart
or that you bleed
for me
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
a protective mechanism;
unsightly, yet all you need
to keep out deadly passions
some may call is masochism
yet it is the fear that i'll bleed
from digging at the lesions
of a love long lost
and then i met you
as if you were a blanket
shielding me from the hurt
this world can cause
only your warm touch blank it:
all the pain that has been inflicted
oh, how i long to be yours.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
*you showed me
that you can still pick a scab
off of a scar*
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Couldn't eat so
I smoked a cigarette,
now all I've got is shallow satisfaction,
bad breath.
But I'll pick my scabs, just to
remind myself,
Pick my scabs
as if I could find myself
finger-deep in my own left thigh.
Missed you today,
I turned the TV on so I wouldn't
feel alone, and
let reality slip
away.
And I pick my scabs to remind myself,
Pick my scabs to encourage better health
And I pick my scabs so I can know they're healing
I always fell in love with
moments, never with the man.
I danced through stars to
love songs I couldn't understand
And I pick
my scabs, just to remind myself
And I pick my scabs,
just to pretend to know
how scars are birthed from blooming skin
Pick my scabs like I wish I
could crack apart my shell,
let it shatter
let it shatter
But you can't see it, so to you it doesn't matter.
Flesh will always lie, but my keloids will remember.
Bitter past will grasp upon you
but surviving is what matters.
So I,
pick my scabs
to remind myself
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC