Scabs

i pick my skin in hopes that something comprehensible hides underneath it,

that maybe the blood oozing out from the open orifice will spell out a truth that

explains if how i reacted was from trauma or instinct, if it’s better to flinch at an open

palm or bask in its openness, the quickest millisecond of warmth from the impact

of one’s hand to my cheek. the only time my face isn’t wrapped in a glacial sheet.

and to my dissatisfaction, it’s only a testament of my body’s responsiveness

in repairing my own damage. my body has become an expert at mending mistakes.

it is the one thing i appreciate, despite how much I deprecate

she knows

to clot quickly and singe my skin so that my fingernails retreat from the area,

she knows my tolerance for pain

brandishing repercussions like a gun

the easement of water will feel like shards of glass nibbling at my palms

making showers and hand washing inconveniences

anything that cleans the area is acid

and drives me closer to the chance of infection

everyone will know by the markings splattered across my canvas—body, face, arms, legs

are self-made

my body knows i’m self-aware. i resort to band aids even if blood never rises and

spills onto skin her fleshy surface.

then my fingers brush against a rough patch of healing

tantalizing

i find my fingertips drifting over the bumps and ridges and miniature grand canyons

scattered—uniform

i created the mountains and valleys my body limits.

my eyes scale over their peaks. my fingernails are urged

they rendezvous.

and curiosity kills me.

i convince myself that perhaps this time I’ll find something beneath—

something worth the scarring.