Island of the Buried Bestsellers

They say the only requirement of a writer is to remember every scar,
To face them, and to know them, in and out -
Better to breathe pain, to immerse yourself in it
Then to forget.

The reality is that to be a writer, you cannot allow yourself
To scar - you must bleed, you must keep the wound
Open and gushing. Let it fester, let your skin
Rot off the bone - better that than to forgive.

There’s no story in a scar. Marks that have healed
Become irrelevant - memories twist, become fantastical.
Wounds are pure, blood is truth. Infection is a testament to
Conviction, to commitment - writers are martyrs,
Plunging their own swords deep into themselves.

Let me die here, then,
I’ll welcome the purging of my skin from my bones,
Invite the foxes to chew my ligaments and the vultures
To peck at my eyes, I’ll protect the worms as they
Make homes in my liver.

I write, and so to write I will not let myself
Heal, never let the cuts close up or
The fever to break. I’ll never be more
Than a body left to rot on my sword;
Forget the scars, live in the hurt.