Beyond Treatment

This flesh burns like the rage of Helios.

Boils form from the hot iron rods of self-hate,

simmering and festering with each infliction.

I try to look in the mirror and treat my wounds.

However, my reflection screams and the glass shatters,

the shards mapping a war path on this quagmire of a visage.

The lines on my face are the trenches,

shoveled deeper and deeper over the years

and filled by the infinite flood of blood.

The tears are self-inflicted by fear.

Rubbing alcohol only fuels the inferno,

adding to an endless resume’ of arson.

No amount of bandaging can bury this monster.

No surgeon in the heavens can remove these horns.