At home each night before I go to sleep,
I reach into the nightstand for my knife
And add another to the scars I keep,
While cursing all the demons in my life.
At first, the wound reveals the skin beneath
And pulls away from muscle, bone, and fat;
I fight the pain by grinding of my teeth
And wonder where the absent blood is at.
I wonder, did I not cut deep enough
To summon any of the soothing blood?
I wonder, is my tolerance as tough
For suffering through pain as it once was?
An interruption in the flow of flesh
Can fascinate me every single day;
From injury I self-inflicted fresh,
I somehow cannot force my eyes away.
Eventually, the opening will bleed,
Impatiently, I at the throbbing stare
And wait to see the sticky substance freed,
Releasing me from obsolete despair.
The mitigating matter soon appears;
The precious liquid trickles from the wound.
In desperation, through the gash it smears
To reconstruct encasement that was ruined.
It oozes forth and gathers into beads
And lingers till it can no more remain
In place, and with my inner pain it bleeds
In gushing streams of powerless disdain.
Assured that I am carnal in design
Instead of just a pain-afflicted soul,
I know at last my burden is benign
And I am in mortality’s control.
I watch until the blood is nearly dry,
Enlivened by relief a wound can reap,
And, with the knowledge someday I will die,
Contented, I can settle into sleep.