Injury

At times when I feel comfortable with the world,
organic, as if I had grown from its elements
and not imposed upon the face of it,
there’s only one thing pulling me back -
apathy, for its and mine fate,
which grew in place of the hope you and I killed.
If I knew the part of my brain where your memories reside, now decaying,
I would dig my nails into that rotten flesh
and rip it out and crush it within my hands
and watch and rejoice as it drips down red,
gone drop by drop, moment by moment,
remembrance by hurtful remembrance.
I would risk that injury, and insanity -
at times I want my freshness back so bad.