Do
you think I like a bloody head?
I am caught in a place where I don't know
whether to freeze or thaw.
I am a freeze-frame photo,
caught
snapped in a position of anguish,
catatonic,
trying to swallow my pain.
It will now be swallowed, and yet,
there is no safe place
for me to vomit.
And so, I force myself into inaction
while my mind
sees my fist go through the mirror,
through the windshield,
my hands beating the car doors,
my arms flailing at the ground
with a stick.
Do you think I like a bloody head?
You say I should give it a rest.
That my pain is too much for me.
You are worried for me.
Are you?
Really?
Or, are you worried for yourself?
I can understand.
It is not pleasant to see me.
It is not pleasant to be me, either,
but....
I am all I've got.
And I need to spew this pain out,
this pain that has a million sources.
And my head is going to get a lot bloodier
before I quit bleeding.
You had better decide if you can stand
the sight of blood because I cannot promise
that I can only bleed quietly
when you are not at home.
