Each staccato tick

This spot
Is an angry red
A sting and a tang
When touched to my tongue
And I can't stop
Poking at it
Wanting to hasten healing
Impotent in the face of the second hand
Laughing at me
With each staccato tick


I'm not better
Something fresh always replaces it
Somewhere and something else
To worry
There is no salve for this
No unguent to soothe
Only acclimation to new pain
As it fades to background noise
Becoming a new instrument
In the symphony of scars


Can you hear it
Playing louder
As you approach?
I tried to warn you