The Blister.

Clawing at it,
only it makes it worse.

I hate the sun,
it blinds me.

I hate people that walk down the street,
the blister itches,
drives me insane.

Some people look at me and never know,
how close to death they come;
I kiss them on their cold cheek.

I scratch at the blister on my hand,
for twelve years.

Sometimes it makes me kill,
sometimes I sit and sing.

Sometimes I stare into the sun.
and wonder what the moon thinks.