I drag hair from my war torn scalp.
one blond, two blond, three blond four.
and toss them
free fall
to the floor.
I scratch my nails into my skull
and find crimson skin beneath my nails.
I force myself to stop.
Drill my fingers into my palms,
pinch into my skin.
But my skull rolls roars
for fingers.
pick. scratch. pull. attack.
attack
attack
it's sick
I'm sick
I want to pick
myself apart;
reverse jigsaw,
and remove myself raw
of all my wrongs.
I'm a disease I want to appease.
A bug I want to put in a corner
and crawl from.
I want to wiggle away from my skin
like a snake
and trail my organs
across
the
floor.
Dis
ass
em
ble
myself
into
c e l l s
and sell
my soul
for something
worthful.
