the woodpecker tree

a perfect body, riddled with scars 

marks of the misconceptions of my mind.

a perfect mind, replete with sickness caused by 

the constant war I am waging against myself.

i am holding fast 

to the mast 

of my vessel of lucidity

as it pulls me through the 

black oceans, and away from 

the woodpecker tree 

that is my body. 

away from 

the woodpecker tree

that is my mind.

away from 

the woodpecker tree

that is me.

a personality honeycombed with holes 

from every dark night, and every 

pair of scissors i can no longer look 

upon or hold without feeling

like i drank a glass of that 

opaque black ocean water. 

i try to hold onto that mast

so i do not fall back into that 

mental murk

but the wind whips me away,

and once again i am both the woodpecker

and the tree.

peppering little holes into 

my own body. 

i don't want to go to therapy, 

just to hear the adult say 

"stop making yourself the woodpecker tree,

push those thoughts away!"

and i don't want to get on meds

just to hide the thoughts away.

at night the demons will slip back in,

done hiding for the day. 

i will always be 

the woodpecker tree

and i will always be

the bird;

punishing myself 

for for something I can't help,

and wishing that my thoughts

were less absurd.

 (m.e.)