Every day, I pick at my skin layers
To get deeper and deeper to the flesh
And the bone and the soul that seems
To only stay at my fingertips.
The first layer is surface, the identity
Of yourself easily peeled away by
The lust of saliva and teeth against it.
And it tastes chemical, a mix of surface
Dirt and possible Bath and Body Works.
I do not mind the taste, because I
Am unaffected by the earth's attempts
At stopping my tongue in its disgust.
The second layer is bloody.
No one intentionally tastes their own
Blood unless they have a nosebleed or
A cut they need to suck on. People do not
Get to the second layer because the taste
Of blood and muscle is deterring to them.
I have not minded it myself, but I
Have never exactly noticed blood.
Or muscle. Or anything remotely human.
At this point you are not peeling, you
Are chewing bits at yourself to peel
The muscles away.
The third layer is bone.
And bone on bone is a terrible taste,
I'd admit. It grinds against your teeth,
Ticking every sensation within your gums,
And eventually it begins to hurt.
I myself have never gone passed to the
First segmented piece, but if you try
It, maybe your souls is even deeper than mine.
The fourth layer is soul, but you do not
Eat it. You gaze. You hold its warmth
In your palm that is not peeled at,
And you look within your soul.
Mine, you ask?
I've seen it the once, but the soul
Screams at you if it is surfaced
For too long. I'd advise a moment's
Gaze at best before placing it back
Where it came from.
And, when you do put it back,
Close your eyes and wait for
The skin to heal.
Everyday I pick at my skin layers
So I may one day see my soul again.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoetryI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
