probe at the sore spot
brain is a blade
serrated, sharp, a leaf or tongue
push into wound
see
how harsh the bruise
could be
what pressure
borne
roll up a sleeve
do you see scars, no
little white marks
from long ago
those cutting thoughts
file away inside
eroding
until
could no longer
feel a warm body.
my mind
lashes, unexpectedly
gone
oh
if the badnasty fuckedup addiction of
cruel, shitstinking deadeye
suddenly

absents itself
does one celebrate
bereftness
or mourn
evil joys?
to identify
that creepy, suppurating line…
maybe scabs
provide
some comfort
after all