Permanent Mutilation.

Hide me in your wounds, while they’re still fresh and wet and sore.
Take me, conceal me inside of it and hide me there.
Allow the scab to grow over it,
entombing me within it-
there I shall be safe,
but it is there that I will interfere,
where I’ll begin to linger and irritate you every time you try to forget that I’m there,
that this wound is here,
and that I am still alive within it.
I’ll scratch and deface the wound from inside of you,
where you will be unable to reach to relieve the pain I will authorize.
You’ll scratch and pick at the scab in malicious agitation.
You’ll find yourself entering a purgatory that you will not be able to verbalize.
You’ll gasp and pant and pray to fictional Gods with each pluck.
You’ll feel every form of pain but in that particular moment- you won’t give a fuck.
You’ll see blood oozing from the cracks but you’ll scratch it more till you can peel it off.
Then you’ll cry and moan when you see that the wound has already closed,
and all you’ve done is fabricate a scar.
A permanent mutilation that can always be seen
and that will always be felt.
At this point you’ll realize that you shouldn’t have saved me.
You shouldn’t have fallen for my tricks,
you shouldn’t have been so gutsy.
You allowed me to dwell freely within the vulnerability of your sores-
and thus freely,
I exploited them.