Excoriation

Fingertip burns
from man-made injury,
precisely executed
as with a razor blade.

The sting

a proof of dedication,
of success over failure,
over sinking into an emotionless pit.

Breaking through
the intolerable stillness
is
a drop of fire blood
pulsing and pulsing with
my whole body behind it.
The deep, dull sting –
the pain that’s
blue
white
black,
jolts of colour
stretching and stretching
farther, tighter, closer
than I thought I could stand.

A sting, and
silent snap.
It ends.

And the horizon of fire spreads
and swallows my ring finger.
It curls tight in retreat, but it cannot escape me.

I am cruel to it,
because it is not me
(and because it is).

Because it is not perfect,
as I want it to be.

Chubby red cherub,
my ice fire finger.