Furrows Poem by Charlotte Ballard

Slimy, black bugs
Crawl under my skin.
Making curving furrows
That criss-cross over and under
But mostly under, I think.
It's hard to tell
When the scarlet blood
Wells up like virgin oil.

People, blind, walk on.
I want them to point and stare
At the smattering of
Drops that drip quietly
From the strange carving of
A rustic hand.

When the darkness comes,
I hear the black bugs munch
And munch and munch and munch
Those tiny bugs that scurry and hide
When I rip away the offending flesh
Hoping to find just one, just one
That munches on my bones
As I sleep.

The doctor tracks, made of creased
Criss-crossed tracks,
Make furrows, too, which hide
The enemy still deeper, yet
Even those give way,
Eventually.

And the people point and scream
While the children cry.
But I walk on,
Blind.