Track Marks and Tools

With a chisel you abrade the barricade that stands at full command, 
possessing the antibodies to fight off anything but you; it’s one and only addiction.

You’re the crack pipe it smokes with a ten second high, the metal piece that creates a longing for more.
The pain I forget to remember and then forget to disregard.
You’re the paper cut and nails on a chalkboard.
A kick in the ribs and a sprained ankle.
You’re a stubbed toe with tremendous throbbing.
Your inevitable and excruciating.

With a chisel you abrade the barricade that stands at full command,
Smiling as your burry the dignity I have left.

I am the tentacles which have latched on to minute qualities of righteousness.
The tears which paint my body black,
I am the salt that burns my open wounds.
I am the salt that burns your open wounds.
The wounds that you have chiselled upon my skin.