by Jack Scholtes
How can I identify what I think, or what to think
When I have a festering, blood-boiling, filthy itch?
Like dragging a cheese grater across my brain,
Like bugs tearing open my skin
I can almost see that others don’t have this itch,
Which makes me feel disgusting, and humilated.
Was I left in the sun too long? Was I thrown into acid?
What made me the unlucky one, to feel an itch like this?
I can’t integrate anywhere, anyhow, when I have this itch
Whatever anyone calls it, I know it too well, or at least the feeling
I can’t put my finger on it, but I know it’s too broad for me now, to think about
It’s comparable to being born alone, into a whole world that hasn’t been explored
I’ve tried, and tried again, to attempt surgery on my brain
Just to find a lingering, pain in the ass itch,
I’ve amputated, and stitched together, and drowned myself
Just to itch the mass in my head, the rotten part of me
Sitting on that brown, fancy couch, and thinking
“Why is this lovely woman trying to help me?”
She doesn’t need to hear my story, my pain
Why does she want to hear me speak anyway?
She can’t amputate that itch out of me, although I really wish she could
But the only one that can get rid of it is me, the man who wants to help
If I oppose it for long enough, surgery can wait a bit longer
But eventually, unfortunately enough,
I still have that fucking itch.