Thorn

There is a thing in me that hasn't learned that it has died

The rationalization of its finite existence sinks in with every consequence

Deigned the right of its privacy.

In a violation of its own volition, this thing inquires

What it already knows

Seeking reproach for the sake of recollection

With no collection of rudimentary qualities within which it persists.

Memory so opaque that it has crystallized

Forms a habitat and sustenance, gaining posture as it feeds

Blood letting as it soaks in the remnants of differential retrieve.

Emaciated with repetition; static sentimental had borne

Easing its way over crests meant to subdue it

And it is pierced, penetrated - trapped in its own juices

With every malicious defect meant to misconstrue.

This thorn seems to switch places every time I itch.