Scratch

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch

away at the page

with the edge of a knife

of a pen,

and draw black blood

from the wound

and the word becomes a womb

that all life crawls from,

glistening dark in the moonlight

and shining across the eye lid

she can’t speak,

she can’t say

she can’t believe

and yet she scratches.

Scratches.

Scratches away.

. . .

Scratch

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch

away at the page

with the edge of a knife

of a pen,

and draw black blood

from the wound

and the word becomes a womb

that all life crawls from,

glistening dark in the moonlight

and shining across the eye lid

she can’t speak,

she can’t say

she can’t believe

and yet she scratches.

Scratches.

Scratches away.

. . .