how do you scratch the itching guilt away – a burning, writhing skin you never asked for, cursed to wear as a prisoner of regret. the dj casually mentions a can of worms and it becomes your tipping point, your truth spilling over uncontrollably, seeping into the cracks. the car radio fizzes into white noise as you feel the squirming creatures crawl over every nook and cranny of your insides. they eat away underneath your skin, festering like an old wound reopened, tearing apart painstaking stitches from a past life. you claw at this growing scab, wanting to shed this visible layer of pain; but the bleeding warns you against impatience. it is always too early. the hurt remains long after, because it will not allow you to forget. it follows you in your shadows, a parasitic being, feasting.
i’m aching to douse this wound in spirits, my only way to swallow bitter pills, even though yes, i do know, that’s a toxic combination. but only then, will i be free.