Ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive…
Badlands/ Bruce Springsteen

It’s my call
whether to plunge the ragged nail
down through the supple skin
like a fist through a pane
of glass, lick the delirious rush
of red from my fingers
like honey from a hand
rammed deep in a hive

or shiver in silence,
say it’s a zen thing to cure
without curing, heal
minus healing,
shudder the loosened skin
like a cat drowning in a sack
snug as bones sliding out of joints,
or bullets circumnavigating barrels

no pain without gain:
but what if the pain
is the gain, if this is the only way
I can possess these bones
the way the sun owns fire
the way the job owns the mouth,

but never the skin
never the blood;

I can write the rush
in sharp red ink, paint myself red
head to tail, shiver and scream,
pain/gain
freedom’s whore
chained at last.