thorns and torrents

Refusing to heal
you pick at wounds,
and flaws to keep them fresh,
And grasp them dear to you
That which has been your worst…and best.
It is as though the thorn that tore
Still rests inside your scar:
That thing, that moment you abhor,
the Root of who you are.

How much better, if it would
Remain and give you leave
To be a broken piece of skin
A welt allowed to grieve,
But time slides on,
And pushes out
That poisoned point of age.
To recover, to release:
Relinquish to the grave,
That thing, that hurt, that tiny piece
Of life, and barb of pain,
And become some healing thing:
quiescent, flesh again.

Let go of what you long to be,
The waters of your past:
The dripping sloshing currents
Of the break that broke you last.
These things create you, shape you twice
Or more if you agree
to hold on to that trickle,
While its nature begs to flee.
Allow the flow to carry on
And with it yield the rot
And then a puckered, honest scar
Reflects what you are Not.