It is a blackened scab I pick in the dark,
When its voice is louder, knowingly shadowed.
The blood doesn't scare me as much anymore
Even though my understanding of it
Is less organized than it used to be.
My Summers are always the same;
Winter following closely with hazy memories.
Then disappearing by the new year.
It's like a tune engraved into the walls of my skull,
Yet I cannot remember any meaningful words.
Humming alone in the dark
Never does me any good when the lyrics muddle together
And the blood starts running.
But it will always scab over anyways.
Always, anyways.
E.