Diagnosed A Dogma

I sit, heaviness my holder,
the corner of my room shallow support
and stare at the cracks in the wall.
One small flake of paint
struggles itself to freedom,
I feel my fingers itch to pick it, flick it
and laugh hyena at its destruction.

Bandages coil around my wrists,
press for a pulse they cannot find
and bleed my skin old time to purify,
to balance, or maybe to unbalance
my mind from its subversive reverie
I want to dream of pomegranates
But taste the worm instead.

My skin feels like leaves,
smells like death,
the death of something
I did not have the knowledge of.
So sudden but so slow,
like autumn’s first turning,
and all I want is to be whole again,
to scratch my chest and find
something other than peel beneath.

They peer at me through the window,
echoing a hammer fall of centuries ago
and place the lamb at my feet.
They are the clipped, the unchosen that
haunt these halls for my kind, waiting for
my words to form an unholy scripture,
but they wait blind, my words are already here
underneath my fingernails
tangled up in my hair.

There is a scar on my side
to match the one in my head,
where he took it back.
He spoke not a word, his hand
deep inside of me, his teeth biting my
lip so that I could not scream.
I still try but all that comes is a familiar hiss.

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