Amnesia Lazarus

Scrub away the remnants of emblazoned colours that have mixed down to mud. Settled in pore. Scraped through every crease. Dead finery clings in layers that have fused over years, bringing me closer to a man I don’t know. Brittle skin. Exposed to morning air. I cut myself open and count the secret rings of my idiocy. If I dress this wound that mimics a smile I may still bleed through, yet manage the infection. I will always rub in the salt, kick the man when he’s down. Like amnesia Lazarus he will always rise again and ask for more. Dumb, surprised, and ultimately lost.