Your Underground Echo

i invert
i scratch at the crust
the charred bits
i dab the grazes and
sting the gashes

it hurts
but the pain of
denial is far more
horrifying

shards of glass
tips of thinly
hidden blades
nicks from nails
i bare, i bear

the strained tares
yes, the tears of my
head follicles
raw-plucked:
the roots of my
glory

i endure the
shame that disgraces;
that crushing of
your heels

yet, deeper still
i extract ghosts from
the molten core
that burn,
that agonise

roots of your flames
that strangle it,
that constrict my
fire

those nasty flickers
that marched
off your tongue
like warbots 

planted a forest 
of self-doubt 
that drowned my 
jungle wildness