I have a wound
At which I like to scratch
Mid-conversation; drifting attention
I have a wound
At which I like to scratch

I have a scab
At which I like to pick
Laying in the dark; hours ticking by
I have a scab
At which I like to pick

I have a wound
At which I like to scratch
I can’t remember anything except:
I have a wound
At which I like to scratch

I would love to stop being in pain
But I won’t.

Because I have a wound
At which I like to scratch.

Author’s note: I wrote this last night, 9/17/2024, but parts of this feel so familiar I am almost certain I must have accidentally plagiarized it from somewhere. I’ve searched and searched and I can’t find anything that “fits” but… I’m almost certain I’ve heard some of these pieces elsewhere. In the event that I did plagiarize something, let it be known that I did so accidentally using the malformed memory of the thing without realizing it was a memory and not an original thought.

This is, for me, about grief, I guess. But it’s a poem, so it’s about whatever you want.

I painted this yesterday, too, and while these weren’t created with the intention that they be inherently linked in some way, they were produced out of the same headspace: