Compulsion

backsliding is a b***h

War drums.

Punishing insistent pounding

on the underside of my skin;

fire blooming

in the eye of my muscles,

bringing my blood

to rolling boil.

 

My body vibrates

with resistant trembles,

but no matter the months

years

of remission,

suddenly I am nicking my fingers,

grappling with a shaving razor

for its blade.

 

Sharp tease,

indenting my bubble flesh.

I feel my shoulders pretzel,

granite jaw and shivering teeth,

DON’T

but the beat wails

and as my fingers battle with the urge

the boiling burns

my rattled nerves to dust.

 

One (two four five

more more more)

purposeful twitch 

of my wrist

waging countless,

victorious red lines.

 

-

 

I cut until the compulsion

eases,

and my blood slowly cools

into a cold

soothing trickle

like the creek behind my house,

and nothing

ever

burns there.

 

A cool palm of water

reassures my spine

that this was right,

(DON’T)

and when I open my mouth

to gasp in the stream,

it tastes

of quenching

relief.