*CW: mentions of self-harm and death
By T.C. Anderson
How long would it take to scratch my skin until I began to feel bone,
to pluck the tendons like guitar strings and
hear my body’s sweet melodies?
For what is the body but an instrument of destruction and chaos,
a tool to inflict its misery on the world
with hope its mind and soul might bring some
selfish, reprehensible meaning to it all?
And what meaning would be pure and worthy enough
of our self-immolation
that we would so instinctually rip ourselves to pieces
to be consumed by society’s unrelenting fire
while preaching its praises for our unsure revival?
Are our bodies the phoenixes we hope them to be,
resilient to the ashes it creates,
or are we nothing more than dust of the earth
coating the long-forgotten history of a stony, cold grave?
Can you hear the song of my body in the nourishing ground?
Will the remnants of my name dust your lips once more?