Wounds

A poem

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My wounds have worn me
Long past their lifespan
A story I’ve since surpassed
That no longer defines my existence
A tale grown stale in the retelling
Playing inside my head on a loop
Or an external reel
A makeshift cinema
For the consumption of an audience
Peeking under the curtain
At this novelty
A curiosity like a car wreck, on the side of the highway
To be gawked at
A vicarious stab at calamity
A caper and juggling, a sideshow made for passing tourists
I weary of these wounds, doctor
Wearing my lacerations like a jacket
Sloughed off in polite company
Or when the labor requires
There must be new paths to speed up the healing
A tedious process we can skip past
By ripping the bandage off
Surely, an examination will reveal
A different angle to pick at the scab from
That it may slide off, cleanly and completely
Leaving only a flawless tapestry
Unblemished by poor stitching
Pluck out my eyes, that bore witness to the past
Bury my bones in the garden
So they bud again, a fresh fragrance
From new growth, green in the summer haze
Take my brain from its shell, toss it in the sink
Scrub it in suds, scour it clean
Lend me a thimble and thread, that I may patch my innards
Bowel sharpened with pain, perforated with every hollow
Punched in my saga
Give me ice, a numb to curl with
A cure to cuddle, releasing me from my frets
Sparing me sensation
No more torpid tomorrow than I was yesterday
Scrape the necrosis from my flesh
I’ve no use for it any longer
As a crutch to lean on
Grind out the rust in these joints
Hardened and fused through use
My damage won’t define my being
It’s only a gash, a divot
A slice
Of my life

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