Scratch and scrape,
it doesn’t go away.
Cut into that damn itch,
it’s been with you all this time.

From the wound pours blood,
like black ichor. Inky resin,
your lifeblood, life life’s work.
As it pours, still it itches.

Pull more out, ravage yourself
in the name of artistic ecstasy.
Will, your gaping wound itches.
You’re no freer now.

That wound, born from your fingers
has opened up your heart.
Still, it aches so much
when you aren’t scratching.

So you scratch. Scratch away the ache.
But now the wound is open, poisoned;
too much has been bled, and now
there is nothing left of you.

So you let it heal. Close the wound.
But when you itch again,
it is disappointing. Shallow.
you need to bleed like you did.

Strike a balance between itching and aching
for more. Bleed more than a little,
pour it, gently, just enough,
a balance between creating and dying.