Band-Aids

If you don’t see the blood
you can pretend the piercing fire doesn’t exist,
busy yourself trying to forget the razor sharp blade
drawn over your flesh with a howling psychopathic laugh,
then try to suppress memories of the soliloquy of mother may I rationale
by the brutal piranha feast upon your heart
while the flashbacks leave you trembling in sobs of night’s silence.

Keep duct tape pressed so hard as a cover over the pain
that is caused by a rip in your flesh only seen in your mind,
because day by day you clutch like some seventy year old virgin
at the frail hope some stranger will end your innocence,
somehow bring a band-aid that won’t be laced with acid.

Just when the screams mellow
amid the soft honeyed glows of some sunrise
so you think perhaps there won’t be anymore agony,
and this gaping hole in your life
that has drained it of a single reason to want to keep breathing,
there comes some assassin in soothing tones of stealth
while waving an ivory cross
who manages to impale its pointed end you didn't see
deep into the corner of you scar,
it works so unmercifully and intensely
to create a crack in your frail sense of calm.

Like a web, the suffering regurgitates its stabbing sensations
until you are the victim again,
murmurs of forgiveness arise from a tomb
in a graveyard where serial sadistic abusers are buried,
yet never truly die,
they are a giggle at your moans
over the wretched rips to your silence,
as you think cannibals and demon surgeons
must be the only lovers you’ll ever have.