Grudge

i got holes in my pockets
from the grudges i've carried,
when their cruel points and
sharp edges pierced
the thin cloth and tore it open,
slicing through the surface of
the flesh of my thigh and
drawing rivulets of blood that
ran down my legs, under my
pants, and onto my dusty, black shoes.

the pocket holes and thigh scars
are all that's left from those dark
days, but now it seems
the holes i'd made
keep me from carrying
anything good in my
pockets anymore.