No matter how many times I think
I’ve finally fixed the broken pieces,
I’m drawn again to feel for those raw edges.
The crackles creeping under a porcelain glaze
that tempt my fingertips to bleeding.
Irresistible as the traces of blood red jam
that wet my lips, sticky and sweet as I bite.
Within me are the subtle nuances of a cruel joy
that bring comfort as I lay with the broken dolls,
their masochistic smiles soothing my sins.
I chew on lumps of tar as black as my quarried soul
for no other reason than to torment myself
for giving everything. Pouring out my devotion
as I wait back here, once again in Jesus’ blind spot.
Written for dVerse Poets for Open Link Night hosted by Brian Miller.