Picking the Wound

There is something inside, deep beneath the flesh

Like a tiny splinter embedded in my heart

With every happy thought it twists, driving the joy away

I do not know what splinter lies within

But it drives me mad with every moment passing

I must remove the splinter before I go mad with pain

Gripping my means of extraction, I begin to dig

An angry stripe forms underneath the blade

Disappearing in a pool of dark blood

But like a stream in the depths of frozen winter, it congeals

I tear at the scab, frantic now

The splinter pulsates angrily, tormenting me

I pierce my skin with shaking fingers, plunging into my flesh

Digging inside, growing closer, and closer still to the source of my pain

Here! I have found the damned splinter!

My blood-slicked fingers emerge from the hole

Grasping a bloody picture of a girl

A girl filled with hate and shame, a whore

A whore who has sold herself to corporeal pain

An ugly, loveless, cruel, bitter, and selfish whore

Filled with empty self-conceited thoughts

A whore gripped by human fear, and human failure

I stare at this whore, the picture of myself

Stunned by the cruel reality of the picture, I weep

The blood flows again, emptying my body

Running over the dying fingers that grasp the picture

I know it will never cover the picture

It will never drown the truth of the whore within me