I tear away at thousands of small scabs
hiding in hair follicles, only seen by me.
This way, I control when
they heal or when they bleed.
This way, I control when I pull
and they peel away from my scalp
I examine the caucuses and the way
the blood sticks to the old skin
no longer able to heal. I look to dead
bodies on my fingertips before discarding
them and going back for another.
They bleed
And bleed
And bleed
until my hair is died red and my scalp
shows crimson to the world. Mine no longer.
YOU ARE READING
Faces of Autonomy: A Poetry Collection
Poetry"The bones break, building upon one another-each vertebrae snapping, stacking, until my limbs reach the highest shelves." -From Chameleon. TW: Abuse, Grief, Loss, Violence. Poetry was never a genre I thought I would get into. I read very little po...
