Scritch scratch go the words against my skin
Cruel sounds that burn and dig into my flesh
The words scrape across my muscles
Wriggle over my nerves
Rattle in my bones.
Sometimes I wish they’d hit me in silence
Spare me the acid bath of fetid language dripping from
Forked tongues.
The words burrow down into me, icing my heart
Numbing my mind
Nesting themselves in my very soul.
So that when I breathe
I feel the pain of it
The coarse rough paper shaving away
My humanity.
Wood workers use sandpaper to rub out the imperfections
To buff out th ugly bits
I can’t help but wonder what happens to all the wood that’s scraped away
What happens to all those scrapings
What if the woodworker’s never happy?
What if he just keeps sanding away the dirty parts
The ugly parts
What happens to that dust?
What happens to the dust of me?
About the Creator
Frank Geier
Tennessee based scribe of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Come on, join us in the dark. There are such things to see.
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