FRESH OFF THE PAGE: sandpaper

thumb_IMG_4602_1024Anyone who has ever experienced a physical, emotional, or mental wearing down–a sort of spiritual Indian rug burn, if you will–will know the feeling I’m describing in this poem. But I’m not talking about superficial wounds, really. This poem is about the intangible ones that erode into us, harsh and unyielding, leaving a mark.


sandpaper

scrape, scrape down
through the grain,
through the meat,
I feel the rub

faster and faster
grinding all away,
rough, thick, gritty,
a red heat rises

blossoming, burning,
trail blazing deeper,
leaving only a dry
dust in it’s wake

how far down below
can it corrode? where,
when will it end,
fresh scars blooming?

or, after the gray dust
settles, blows away,
will there be, instead,
nothing left of me?

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