Chains and Knives

It’s this chastity thing I’m holding onto.
It’s like a blade
with no handle.

The more I trust,
means the more I loosen my grip.
Then I get scared.
If I lose that weapon,
what’s to keep them from striking again?
It’s an imaginary knife that couldn’t slice through a metaphor,
but it’s all I have.

It hurts like her,
holding onto to something so pretty,
so promising,
only find out it will hurt you more than letting go.

Ok, so I let go,
say I let someone in to this bloody open mess
that is now my hand
blistered and scorn,
Are you telling me there just gonna know what to do with that hand
That they’re just going to nurse it to health.

It was the way he unfurled my hand though
how clenched it was,
he intentionally interrupted the energy I kept crowded in my fingertips.
There is something healing in blood,
not nearly as dark and disturbing as the emo era dedicated poetry to making it sound.

The antibodies,
the fighting power in it.
Something so miraculous,
beautiful;

Maybe I could find,
after all this,
that I can heal myself