Raw

The old raw is the worst. The new raw feels like heaven. Every raw in between leaves you wishing for the first and fearing the last.

Old raw is the kind of raw you think about, dream about, have nightmares about. It gets under your skin, your bone, your muscles – it digs into the marrow and the wire, grinding and slicing. It’s unforgettable, undesirable, and unavoidable. It catches you from the shadows, pounces, and when it gets you, it transports you.

You’re there. Held and dropped. Held and lied to. Held, but never listened to. And then you’re hardly ever held, then not at all. The raw is all that’s left, the kind of lingering numb that comes from hours of vibration. You’re shaken, but the buzz is gone. There’s just the raw, the open cut, and the exposed wires. Like a bare apartment wall, there’s an absence in the space. Your furniture is replaced by packed baggage.

The old raw’s never gone. You just pack as much as you can over the clean paint scars. New raws, new sounds and tastes. You dig them into the old spaces, cut away the rot, and jam in something vital, something burning, something fresh. Like an unfamiliar kiss, or a new color to the eyes. New raw wipes away the pain, but it can’t quite disinfect. New raw is temporary. It loses potency, can’t quite burn away the past.

The old raw remains…so we build, commit, and complicate. Lasting things are remembered, but how much joy do we remember over pain? How many of the good times feel like scar tissue, bittersweet for all the sweeter? New turns old, or turns into smoke, waved away with a stroke of the hand, a slash of the pen. Only the old raw’s left in the end.

In the end, we’re raw until we’re rotten.
In the end, we love to be rotten until it’s raw.