The Blood.

Oh god, the blood.

The pain in my head

	(my heart?)

Got too big

    too much

    too full I started to spill

How do you handle this?

The slow steady ache that turns

     into sharp pain that turns

     into agony

An agony you can't touch

   No antiseptic, no stitches

   no band-aids, no scabs

Just aching, open raw wounds

Ugly

In your mind

Ugly

In your heart

Ugly

And the ugliness comes through

Seeps, damp, up through your layers

your walls, your personal protection devices.

And you dress carefully, walk carefully,

fold the cloth just so, never open

your mouth too wide, never spread 

your legs too far or some ugliness

will slip out, betray you

Everyone will know you're ugly inside

Rotted.  Dead.



I am scraping out the deadness,

cleansing and flushing and running

a sharp blade inside.  I will clean,

leave a hollow, a vacuum, a cold

place free of ugliness.

But to do it

I will have to bleed.

Cold blades on warm skin.

Shedding the layers, letting the scales

fall, cutting throught the fat

to the pain.

The real pain, in my hands.

I can see it, terrible and beautiful

And I can watch it heal and fade.

Leave me a scar, a reminder,

a promise of no more rain.

And it won't be like the ugliness,

the unhealable pain, dull, eternal,

inside me where no one can see

except 

where it leaks out,

shows through.

Oh god, the blood.


		Kelly J. Cooper
		early a.m., 9/22/92
		All rights reserved