A gaping wound pierces my heart in the shape of my be-
loved.
Someday it will scab over.
Someday,
far, far in the future,
it will turn into scar tissue.
I will rub it and it will be soft and smooth and comforting.
It will be with me,
in the shape of my love,
for as long as I live.
I have tried to TEAR MYSELF APART.
Picking at my skin until it bleeds.
Pulling at the extra skin around my waist as if that simple act would make it disappear.
I debated wearing a bag over my head just to cover up my face.
I held a razor to my wrist and wondered if I should pull it across my skin and down my arm.
I just wanted there to be proof on the outside so they couldn’t tell me that my scars are invalid just because they are invisible to the naked eye.
But I never did those things.
As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t tear myself into pieces that would resemble my heart and mind.
No matter how many extremes I took, I would still appear whole, allowing people to tell me that my pain would never add up to theirs like it's some kind of contest.
But I decided that I hurt enough the way it is.
Enough people made me feel invisible and unwanted.
Enough people mutilated me in ways that will never scab over and heal with time.
So I set the bag on fire, and dropped the razor into the garbage can, and waved goodbye to all the tormentors as I ascended the ladders leading into the sky.
“Old man! ‘Tis not so hard to die.”
-Lord Byron
I have grown sick with wanton desire
My lungs are filling slowly with ash
I need to feel the burn of the fire.
Upon the wreckage my shadow is cast.
To this misfortune I must lay claim.
A lecture on lethargy and disdain,
A symposium of sickness and shame.
I saturate the wound with salt and filth.
I scab over. I pick until I bleed again.
So this is how I ruin everything
And everyone around me. Burning at the ends
Down to a smoldering ruin of repute.
A vulgar remnant of hubris and swill
A sad sick example of treachery fulfilled.
It is a chronic disease
that eats away at my soul
as my weakened mind
allows it to creep into the
crevices of my brain.
It destroys the skin
on my hands and face,
picking at it until it bleeds,
leaving open sores
and patches of raw flesh
that scab over
only to be torn open again.
It infiltrates my
defense mechanisms,
distorting perception
until my sense of rationality
dangerously melts into
irrational territory.
I unknowingly cross over
into a place where my thoughts
become mutated in the thick saturation
of insecurity,
and the contents of my brain
slowly begin to liquify.
The first stab
Barely pierced the skin,
So I let it go.
The second,
A little deeper,
A little more painful,
But still,
I forgave you.
The wound began to
Scab over,
And you broke through,
And the pain is so
Unbearable,
And I've had enough.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.