Picking Scabs 12/14

I'm torn,
ripped apart like rotten flesh
and part of me just stinks,
but it's not that late day
I need some extra deodorant
mustiness creeping from
6 unproductive hours of work.
It doesn't smell like
the best workout ever,
hardworking validated sweatiness
sitting in sports bras for the 4th time
this week.
I wish it smelled like I forgot
to turn off the coffee pot
where bleach and open windows
quickly clear the air.
It's old,
back of the fridge,
unrecognizable,
and don't open.
It's worse than wet sneakers.
The rancidness
erodes the ripple effect
I thought I found in running away;
ignorance ain't bliss
and I expected angels
to heal wounds they didn't create,
b/c I define the angel rather than appreciate gifts.
Deciding my cess pool he could wade in,
we stood inhaling memories
long dead,
 wondering why extremism answers when not called,
and watched them sink
into my blackness.
I've been picking scabs,
refuting the process
until bone and sinew laugh
at healing
and spit out charred debris,
the gunpowdered self infliction
of choosing a sport as an ends
rather than a means;
athletes all make almost informed decisions.
And, he watches,
peeling the layers of cracked rubber soles
fm my feet
like onion layers,
with bandages and yet another pair of kicks.
He knows I am going to run.
It stinks.