Self-harm

Finally I glimpse,
beneath the harm
I do myself,
securely lodged
within its wound,
a deeper pain,
like a larva cocooned.

For years I had thought
what I needed was to change
the way that, periodically,
as with a malarial fever,
I thrash through
the walls by which my life is held,
then thrash myself in shame
at losing my control again.

But I have never managed it,
however hard I’ve tried,
and I have never found another way
than just to try, and keep on trying.

Even now I am not sure
that what I see is anything at all -
this little figure,
forlorn, androgynous,
pale, etiolated,
nearly transparent -
putting a hand in mine – half asleep,
still dreamily submerged,
in the great unconscious deep:
my son in me,
my poor, lost son,
whom I would not accept before.

Now I must,
always,
ever,
and do nothing more,
not try, nor sweat about it,
nor pursue, for him, remoter goals.

For otherwise, plunged deeper in that pain,
his hand will slip away again.
Then only my self-laceration will remain.

~ by bod1952 on October 9, 2008.