Tags
cut it out, cutting, itches itched, itchy ghost, poem, Poetry, sonnet, without blood
This blood letting. That itch. You don’t approve
when I slice a burr-hole in the soft parts
of my flesh to extract … what? hurt. The groove
I cut is deep but I don’t need Dark Arts
to count the days before it will itch once
more. Let the bad blood, the stone of madness,
out. You’ve called me savage in the essence
of my faith … but without blood it’s useless
to pray. That itch seizes me more and more
these days. I’d let it out if I could cut
where it crawls under my skin and I’ve tried.
Trust me. I’m squeamish of razors and gore
yet I’ve still tried to cut it out. Cut what
itches me. Cut what runs riot inside.
