You're solid enough
until I pick, by accident ---
a crevice of worry I sink into, a hole
I dig from the inside out.
The creases in my forehead wrinkle,
petrified thought.
Substance flakes away,
a statement in red.
I have much less to say,
but when I snap back to reality
like an elastic band (the metal piece
bites my wrist),
gaze pulled downward,
assessing the damage
I must admit; there is a sick
satisfaction, in picking an old wound
simply to watch it bleed ---
I'm far too polite to do worse.
YOU ARE READING
Landscapes of the Mind - Poems
Poetry❝ ... abyss without color or stars, black hole we know not of until we are confronted by it. ❞ Poems of life, love, and mental illness not-so-loosely based on experience. ❋ ❋ ❋ © Copyright 2015-2017, by April Nicole Jones.
