Watching me

Watching me.Did I see those eyes,
holding deep in bitter iris, the word
‘ yes,’ as if they promised something
I did not deserve, forming only to

mock, as if betrayal were a badge
I wore, unseen only by me, marker
made invisible by denial; disguised
tattoo, carved, curled, stabbed ink

into flesh, waiting, desperate, for
a sign, a symbol that I existed,
even if only in the arms of pain,
even if only in shallow hurting;

slicing flesh as I had done myself,
so many times, nicking and then
cutting deep through bursting blood
and patient flesh, searching down,

down, down, hoping to find in
the roil of bleeding, a surge of
life which would tell me I was
real – made manifest in and of

material being, formed solid so
a hand could touch, hold and
know truth of Self, surely enough
for heart to whisper: ‘This is me.’

And yet, in those times of sullen
sleep, those dark days and bright
nights, where all blurs in deadly
weeping, the voice calls ever

louder, that the heart too can lie,
that nothing can be believed in
any certain way; that I am only
real when I am watching me.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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