I zip myself in my tent for one
and open my wounds one after the other,
turning pages in the library of me,
the anatomy of flashbacks is mapped in my skull.
Some memories are too hard to access,
so raw they’ve been archived in the inpenetrable fuzz of insulation called self-preservation.
They remain like blanks
while live bullets explode in my unconscious,
leaving blood stains that ossify, rust over and stop my soul from bending.
It creaks in agony
and freezes my body in a tight cocoon of pain that can be quantified, actualised, externalised, yet never treated, for its source lies within.
The spring is polluted and cannot provide the nourishment needed for survival.