Obsession / Repression

‘One…’

I harbour secret scars –

no tell-tale silken, puckered skin.

‘Two…’

I dare you to look within my clouded eyes,

to see beyond the film of dread

and tell me they are any less real.

‘Three…’

Thought. Fear. Release. Regret.

Thought. Fear. Release. Regret.

A slave to patterns of absurdity,

I scramble to lose myself in symmetry.

‘Did I already say three?.. One…’

I harbour secret scars –

they cut, they weep, they haunt me.

You won’t find me by the kitchen sink:

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

It doesn’t always work like that.

‘Two…’

We’ve been here before, I know.

but there was no first time; there will be no last,

just round and round and round.

‘Three…’

Do you know what it is to be burned by your own blood?

Crushed by your own ribcage?

A plaything for your own mind?

I hope you don’t.

I wish I didn’t.

‘Four… Five.’

And breathe.

And repeat.