Jake Scott | Poetry

My agony and my bliss walk in step.

The sun lights up the sky, and it burns me. I’m skin-sore, becoming more, 

expanding until the body won’t fit. With a throat full of nectar and a breath that won’t come, I’m caught in suspense. Near death - but still here, hanging heavy in midair. A rag-doll boy with bones like rocks. 

It hurts to become,

said a poem I once loved, and the truth of it blinds me from inside my eyes. 

I’m stretching; full to bursting; spilling over. You can’t contain me - I can only be swallowed by God. I shed my skin, put out my eyes, rise. It hurts to become. I cut myself open down my tender middle and overflow. I empty out, and feel relief that makes my head break. 

I’ve become a becoming - I eat myself - I sigh with no end. My heart pours on, forever. I’m a waterfall-chest man with a theology behind my ribs. I let it out, pluck every bone, throw them to the sea. I carry home with me, skin-suit. I rebuild. It hurts to become. I throw myself apart to let in the light.

So happy to hurt; the more I ache, the bigger I get. I’m wracked by sobs, a bundle of bandages soaked and flaming. As weighty as gravity, I’ve my own orbit. Heaven is hell, white hot. It hurts to become, I’m torn to shreds, I’m self-stitched and messy. My eyes are in my knees. I speak through my hands. 

Be not afraid. I’m simply in construction, build-your-own, dispersed. I’m more than what the skeleton suggests. I’m larger than my bones. I’m an explosion.

I’m an explosion.