The Spot in My Periphery

It’s a sort of hum underneath my skin,

a ringing in my ears,

the spot in my periphery I’ll never reach

peeling back my fingertips, 

smearing red across black keys. 

It lingers, 

dampens the euphoria clawing its way up,

presses the knife to peek between my ribs

the possibility enticing, teasing raw fingers away

to trace exposed skin and cool metal.

The release is a fantasy, the cage is concrete

cracks filling slowly with blood that won’t dry,

that won’t seep beneath, or offer relief from

the burden of stories carved into skin

sanitized and sutured in complete concealment.