I scrub my skin with iron wool—

Cleaning off layers with strings of metal,

Slicing my body in pieces,

Uprooting myself in layers,

Lying in a crimson shower.

And though my body melts away,

My soul holds ground, unmoved,

For here it has been deeply planted,

And here it will stay.

I’ve torn myself to shreds—

To rebuild a person from scratch,

Rewiring fresh veins,

Weilding new bones,

But the untouchable mystery

Sheds it’s light from behind glass

I cannot reach it—I cannot shatter the wall.

Everything its light touches

Deteriorates before my eyes.

I slam my fists into the pane and scream

While my creation is deformed

And returns to its original map.

So I hope you’ll understand,

That while I’ve picked myself apart

And rewrote and reformed.

My spirit wanes, but does not cease,

Refusing to be extracted.

So when you realize I am the same,

As I have been and will always be,

I hope you can at least say,

“She rips herself in pieces

and gives her soul a prying

But if she cannot quench its light

At least she bled out trying.”