suture (draft)

I am the most pointless foreman
Despite broken bones and
childhood cuts and scrapes
that healed without so much a thought
I do not trust my body
to be able to handle a broken heart
I'm afraid that if I do not relentlessly process
if I do not suffer or rub salt in wounds
I'll never be able to get over you

I am a watched pot that never boils
more and more heat and best intentions
I lance my own blisters
without proper sterilization and practice
Perhaps I just like to watch the ooze and the bleed
new ways to self-mutiliate and punish
under the guise of mourning, of relieving pain

It is as if I lack faith in everything including my own biology
I struggle daily with convoluted and molested chemistry
I lay down at night without prayers, only attempted avoidances

I am a flash flood in a time of slow, natural erosion
Irrigation and dams erected, false sense of control
as if I could wake up tomorrow, stretch, and be
this elusive, this vague, this illustrious "sane"

I crawl through deserts and I whip myself with chains
I pay penance for things I have not done, I do not deserve
I search for grails I already possess and polished

I have admired the craft and skill of the suture
I have applied the bandage and the gauze
I will not peek, I will not touch
Despite hints of red, despite the need to itch