This maddening itch in my heart is like–
- poison woven into tissue,
sepsis radiating from the site
where unspoken words putrefy
in anger and hope, toxifying
blood, anxious for salve. - dreams and wishes withering
under reality’s hot sun, lost;
an empty hole in a brick wall
betraying its completion;
absence yearning for touch. - desire unnamed, the chafing
of which tears the hole wider,
fraying thread and loosening
buttons until the entire fabric
compels thorough refashioning. - a deep wound beginning to heal,
pain throbbing and dissolving
per some strange rhythm, work
which scratching would undo,
requiring patience, toleration.
