Asbestos

I have an itch so deep inside I'd need a knife to scratch
It's settled in my gut, my wrists, my throat, my heart, my back
I try hard to ignore it, as it's worse the more I think
Try to divert myself with friends and food and work and ink.
"Don'tscratch!" they say, "and it will fade",
"Don'tscratch! and you'll be fine"
But every day it grows instead, need filling up my mind
The empty space inside me seems packed tight with fiberglass
The shards too small to tweeze,
too small to wash,
too small to smash.
Wicked insulation keeps my soul safe from my head
for I'd take it out, but then - I'm sure -
I'd freeze to death instead.