When skin was thin I dug right in
and mined for all I pleased.
Each night I’d write until first light
and wake each day with ease.
I sliced and diced, not once, not twice,
and scattered my heart to the weeds.
It’s true some grew, hell, some even bloomed,
but I failed to take heed of the breeds.
Now callous and dry, my skin holds no lines,
only roughness and a will to secede.
I long to delve deeper, and now know why the seeker
will cut just to see how they’ll bleed.