when you say you are proud of me for certain thing
that thing, that ugly, bloody thing
that it is gone from me, rid from me, cleansed from me
i sadly smile
it is never gone, my love
it comes on wings and gnashing sharp teeth when the tears run rivers down my face
and my heart pumps so fast i think it may stop
and even when i go numb to all
it gnashes its teeth but its siren song is sick and sweet
and oh, oh, it calls to me to relieve this mental agony and channel it into red
it takes all of me to resist that call
to stuff my mind full of wax and tell myself no
and i do, it has not made me fall in years time
but it is always there, always calling, always shaming when i am weak
it is never gone.
a poet's confessional 