I feel tender and raw
like the patch of skin I
ritually pick at
every morning,
a red and swollen circle
I barely notice anymore.

It's tucked away from the mirror
but my fingers find it
with practiced ease,
and as the sun rises
I bleed out the nightmares from hours earlier.

I did laundry last night.
The warm smell of clean sheets makes me sad.
I can't explain it
but I bury my nose in my pillow
and fold myself under the sheets
and the cotton on my skin
feels thick and tough.

Another injection is due this week.
I find relief in the fact
because my skin feels empty,
and walking around sore
and leaking oil from my thigh
is better than nothing.

I made a list of pros and cons
in my mind on the bus this morning,
but the pros fell short
and I fell out of love
with the rain's tinny sounds on the metal above my head.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I don't try to stop it anymore.