Words Are Worse

Words are worse than cigarette burns:
the ones which already parody my inside-out
flesh, the ones marching their steady way
towards more, (and worst), the ones that pock
the sky's ever-night having eaten the North Star
and usurped its position as guide.

Edges bloom over this miasmic pallor, suffocatingly
thick, devastatingly red. A scar garden,
a freefall of frayed stitches,
untied knots,
thoughts that clot in my jugular and bubble out my wrists--

keloids rise like yeast births bread
but aren't nearly as filling
(or taste as good with jam).