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Bleeding


I haven't, in a long time,
bled myself.

I haven't scratched flesh,
watching in
dread fascination,
grotesque shapes
burning, searing, yearning,
dying and birthing themselves.

I haven't watched
the blots spread into
new territories of being
I dread to enter.

I haven't,
I haven't watched
meanings do their morbid dance,
preen in their vanity
or thrash about
or flail limply even.

I haven't stood by
to watch the reek
of ambushed dreams
rot by the roadside,
the gutter-water rushing over them.

I haven't, in a long time,
bled myself.

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