Relentless

I screwed up.

Again.

Same damn wound, reopened—

blood and shame mixing,

staining every step I take.

I'm tired of putting on a show 

I will learn this time.

I am stuck, really, 

in the same sick joke 

I play on my own skin.

This wild life? 

It's war. 

And I am the enemy, 

taking swings at myself that never land. 

I distribute smiles,  

as I would distribute band-aids  

for gunshot wounds,  

as if the art of something flowing  

in the blood made it only pretend  

I believe they are learning

but they never are.  

I keep strolling  

back into the same fire,  

with barefooted walk,  

as if that burn is makes me worthy.

There is no glory in this,

Just bruises and bitterness 

and a painful kind of hope- 

maybe one day I will be unstuck. 

Maybe someday

 I will drag myself out of it, 

fingers torn, 

breath heavy, 

but mine. 

I will wear my scars

like teeth.

And I will breathe,

like someone who remembers 

what it felt like to drown.