A poem about a stupid spot
This is a poem, I guess, that I wrote in the bathroom stall of my university library after absolutely digging in my skin. I felt a small spot at my desk, and everything crumbled so fast I had to go and sort it out. This poem was in the back of my mind the entire time, trying to rationalize the process. I guess this was just for me to materialize the feeling, but i thought "what the hell, let me share it, maybe someone will know the feeling too". And so, here it is:
—
There is a spot on my forehead.
Red and enlarged, but no head.
Nothing to fret about
Logic reassures my mind.
But now I have seen it.
I have seen it and I can feel it there.
I am not touching it but I can feel it.
I can feel the blood flowing
Through the capillaries.
Get it out get it out get it out.
The spot feels large and angry.
I can’t feel it throb but my mind
Can feel it’s implied throbbing.
My cheeks start to redden
And my fingers start to agitate.
Get it out get it out get it out.
The spot is there. I can feel it
Even though it minds itself.
It burns and it itches,
But not under my skin.
Under my ribcage.
Get it out get it out get it out.
Blunt fingernails gnaw at
The flesh of my lungs
Trapped in their boney jail.
And all their cries travel
Up my throat and deep inside my ears.
The symphony of voices
Are screaming.
Out of sync. Out of tune.
Get it out get it out get it out.
My fingers are large and useless.
I crave something with surgical accuracy.
Why can’t my hands
Do what I desperately need them to do.
Pacify them please I beg.
Get it out get it out get it out.
Dig and dig and claw and press.
The voices soften. They are not satisfied
But they are content. They know
There is nothing more I can do.
And so there is a notice on my forehead.
Written in red. Written in swelling.
It reads: “there was never anything there.
But rest, for now it is gone.”