February 17, 2025.
Many times over, I’ve watched what was clean
Become a maddening red, then a scabbed-over brown.
There is no space for what was; I only know these colors now.
I am something new ensnared in scar tissue,
An old bullet or arrowhead
That stays rooted in a single moment,
Tucked into flesh as if it were a blanket.
I am maybe just the sum of what has happened,
More than what I’ve done to try to heal,
But admitting that is speculative self-flagellation.
That doesn’t wash away the grime.
It is easier, maybe, to complain about
The stains in your favorite shirt
Than to simply take it off and wash it.
But I am loyal to my agony, and I don’t wish to forget.
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 23 times
Written on 2025-02-17 at 16:13
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tucked into flesh
All that blood has dried, that I know.Many times over, I’ve watched what was clean
Become a maddening red, then a scabbed-over brown.
There is no space for what was; I only know these colors now.
I am something new ensnared in scar tissue,
An old bullet or arrowhead
That stays rooted in a single moment,
Tucked into flesh as if it were a blanket.
I am maybe just the sum of what has happened,
More than what I’ve done to try to heal,
But admitting that is speculative self-flagellation.
That doesn’t wash away the grime.
It is easier, maybe, to complain about
The stains in your favorite shirt
Than to simply take it off and wash it.
But I am loyal to my agony, and I don’t wish to forget.
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 23 times
Written on 2025-02-17 at 16:13
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
