This Skin, This Voice

But perhaps it is time
for yet another wounding,
and another delicate hurt, much deeper
than all the previous cuts
I have received before.

Time enough to sing
another song, let out some
strains in a voice cracking
with soul and sorrow
as I descend into another
and another
level of tragedy.

This skin, this voice:
the first has long remained
whole and untouched; the second
has muted most of its griefs.

No matter. Blades are ever present,
poised on all sides, quick to stab
either the bone or bare heart,
or to pray away old scars, even
as my hand closes around
to stop the bleeding.

For I know I would rather
sing of these, my lumps of pain;
much rather leave traces
of blood upon the pavements;
rather have ghosts of griefs
announce my fall –

than nothing behind me at all.