The Boil on the End of My Nose
A poem
This boil, this traitor bulging from my face,
is no innocent blemish, it smoulders rage,
lava of resentment gathering under the skin.
With each breath it twitches,
pulsing like a third eye opening to indict me.
What sins have brought this scarlet accusation?
It leers at me in the mirror’s honesty.
No highlighting contours can camouflage
this blasphemous blasphemy of the flesh.
An ugly truth about myself made manifest,
it dares me to suffer its painful lancing.
Whether I let the poison glory fester and spread,
or take the knife myself,
apply the necessary brutality
to dig out the rotting root.
Either way,
blood and pus ease forth, obscene.
Yet within that defiled baptismal rite,
imagine the chance for vile rebirth,
a purging of toxins, internal and external.
to emerge pristine once more,
unburdened by this carbuncular traitor on my face.
Or will the cycle of blemish
just begin again?
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