February 5

February 5

a.

I picked at a scab on my cheek
until I got it off, and everywhere the blood
touched, a new scab formed. I picked all those off
my face and neck and hands and leg
and when they bled, it spread
until it covered me completely. Tourniquet
brought me flies for protein, which the orderlies
confiscated. The gods of flies like wasted blood.
See how their white clothed maggots are drawn to rot.

b.

I felt squelched
up top, weak from lack
of blood, dug around and found a knot
too big to cut, so I pulled
it free, tore hair and flesh from the roundness
of my head, unraveled it like string
from a sweater until nothing was left
but void.
I felt hollow
as an Easter bunny, the darkness
between my ears full of light,
dust. The breeze from the vent
made my toes twitch when it blew
over the hole. I turned up the fan
and made myself dance a full five minutes
before the orderlies came
and wrapped me up in gauze.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Ditch Poetry