My name, taut as an old skin, constricts my breath.
I’ll scratch it off, let it flake in the dust, so new
skin may grow, ruddy, fresh and raw.

My heart, hard as a scab, still aches,
but no longer bleeds; it shies from any touch.
I’ll cut it from my chest, let fresh blood flow.

My head, thick as a scar, picks at itself
until the tissue is dull and hard, too thick
to speak or laugh. Better to walk headless.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *