Here are the roots of it:
frayed wires in my wrists.
Deep under calloused skin
I found them, right where the nerves
should have been.
‘Til now I’d only felt my blood buzz. You don’t
feel each shock when wire teeth burn
you all over. So
when I pull them out, one-by-one,
they sting hard.
Sun-blinded into overexposure,
electric-blue faces stain walls
a blink over white nothing, the same place
you’ll also return to. Strange,
what works its way below skin.
You only learn you’re man-made
with the membrane shorn.
Less afraid these days
now I’ve seen what’s beneath
I duct-tape
tassel ends to tame them. When feeling comes
I polish copper ‘til it shines,
current channelled down my fingertips
so it all comes oozing out.
I gaze soft at each blue, let it burn low
then put polished coils to rest. I can look
at them, now I tend these afterimages—my archive
in daylight and dark.