...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a8Q6SyMydQ

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I picked a good spot - somewhere

with a view, somewhere

where the snow 

could pile upon my shoulders,

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where I could see the river

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     freeze.

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It's strange, when a wound finally heals:

a little, pale line replaces 

the space 

where, prior, it'd been occupied with terror.

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rent flesh, bone, 

small metal staples, 

inflammation, 

and the maddening twist 

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of enfolded tissue damage

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Years go by, and the area 

that'd once caused pupils to dilate -

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froth to form, fall 

from a panting mouth, 

muzzles to snap, to howl,

casting blame towards a moon 

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that fails, thereafter, 

        to answer,

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- now exists only, a line. 

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It's numb where wounds heal, nerves 

can't extend their feeling 

beyond where flesh 

has been reknit, and so the line 

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feels nothing, save for the wayward tingle

as nerves attempt the extension 

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of their failing, irregenerative reach.

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My white lines are numb, and painful, 

and when they stop hurting

nothingness takes their place - 

an empty sour that occupies a void -

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and when hollowness drifts into the gaps

where the pain should otherwise be, 

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I find that I far

prefer the pain

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over the sensation of feeling empty.

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