scratches

reading a quick
history of france
i hear muffled
crying behind the wall
i let it be
at first
but it’s a horrible
wail and moan
a thrashing
that i really couldn’t ignore
much longer
you can’t ignore shit
like that
so i put the book
down and open the door
and there she is
matted hair
in front of her face
black t-shirt
black jeans
scratches down her arm
blood in streaks
face red with tears
i think she looks like death
a nightmare of adolescence
holding her arm
a caged animal
ready to pounce
heaving breath
a common tuesday
afternoon in brooklyn
in the twilight
of winter
mumbling to herself
how it burns
the scratches
something else
as people move away
from her
as others crowd around
gazing at the wreckage
of the soul
asking what is it
asking her why she did it
who she did it for
but of course they
don’t care
and of course
she doesn’t know why
most of the time
they never know
but it’s always
someone
something
life
you and me
and everyone who looks
as we do
a priceless madness
when we can’t hold
it in any longer
when decorum goes out
the window
and it feels good
to let the blood flow
toward the bright sun
shining in the ugly
blue sky.