Under the skin

Somewhere in the forest

of my memory

I've dug a little thorn that battles.

The redder it gets, 

the harder I scratch my skin.

Perhaps it's an old letter

I stuffed back into the mailbox

without reading,

Or maybe it's a lie I told

myself, impossibly smug.

The pages I did not turn,

the faces I chose to look away from,
the old coat of habit I refused to take off,

or the unwelcome dance of the wise owl,

I ignored in my arrogance.

Paper boats of furious hunger
Sink in midnight disbelief.
Sometimes love is silent, little one.
And past the anger, understand -
To not be alone is not love's favourite child.

The bed I sleep in is burning,

And I have been running for too long.

The ragged silence between the walls

spills old stories of false comfort,
But comfort I cannot share.

I am not ashamed to ask,

But afraid of the answer, I pause.

The endless questions, like cold hope,

simmer in the blood.

I laugh, and the echo keeps silent.

I must find my thorn,

And I must live with it.

Brief be my tryst with doubt,

Briefer still, my faith.

But she - she stays, my madness.

And for her, I will go all the way.