Left Behind

Fingertips find scars on my skin
from where one of us tried to tear our way in —
Or maybe one of me tried to tear its way out.
This heavy flesh, too soft, too weak, too rounded.
Carve it off me in wide, swift swaths;
let it fall until I’m little more
than bone and muscle and tooth and voice.
Let it fall until I am only
the shadow of myself that I can already feel.
Let it all fall away until
the thing I know to be me is purified,
until I am distilled,
and what is left behind can truly be

left behind.

This journey cannot begin
while I am still chained
to something so solid
and so utterly somehow not me.

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.