Metamoriphobia Poem by Thomas McKelvey

The past is in my veins,
throbbing.
I used to cut them,
trying to get it out,
trying to feel 'normal.'
Now, the past is a poem,
words of feeling
that I bleed onto the page,
searching for meaning,
searching for healing,
expressions in metaphor
that know me better than I do.
I paint intuitively,
shapes and shades,
my instinct guided by pain,
the images so clear
on the page,
in my skin.
My therapist says,
it's just a broken nervous system,
a faulty way of protecting me.
Someday, I can heal
and choose who I am, but
I'm terrified
the poetry in me
will disappear, and then
who will I be?