Dear Poetry,

I am trying to cover my sadness with words.
Tape them against my scars and wear them
like worthy paper cuts.  My tears are
alcohol swabs, burning and cleansing
wounds of my own making. Sometimes,
I wish I could hide behind them forever.
But not even this journeyed flesh can stand
castle strong against speechless ink stains.
I know the code, and this body does not deserve
a worriers death.  And poetry, you’re a monster—
a creative monster, but evil nonetheless.
I wish to string you into knots and force feed you
down the throats of others.  De-format you
and leave you empty and freeversed-
to hang loosely along the heartstrings
of strangers, and past lovers.
We are the perfect poster children for
battered homes, aren’t we poetry?
The dysfunctional couple
black-eyed and angrily loved.

You can’t protect me from myself forever.