A Less than Gentle Healing

With this heart sickness I have borne,

I do not need soothing vapor or gentle word.

Its roots run so deep into my chest,

only a scalpel, sharp and painful, can reach.

I do not find relief in affirmations,

but in those piercing questions that drench the soul

in sunlight:

the only true antiseptic for secrets.

I do not find gentle footsteps healing,

for they tread gingerly around my wounds,

that same misguided timidness

allowing infection already to abscess in my bones.

I need Truth, the surgeon's knife to cut

and expose it down to its root,

before excising the cancer of the mind

that metastasizes each passing day.

I am beyond tentative measures.

No, it is purposeful and heartwrenching

difficult things that my disease would have me

shy from, as those who treat me do,

that serve as the panacea

for the ravenous infestation in my soul.

And if it is a thing I must do alone,

and all these helpers nothing more than smoke,

let it be so

and I will draw the knife myself.

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Frustration after group therapy.

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