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.