I'm picking these scabs again.
They were once so harmless,
Such trivial little marks caused by the bumps and scrapes
Of life and the interactions within.
How did it get to this point?
Gaping holes, bleeding all over my sheets,
Clawing at the incessant itching from deep within,
But only managing to scratch the surface.
This compulsion to pick away
At the repugnant remnants of these feelings.
Knowing that it does nothing but mark me further,
Ignoring the strands of collagen
Forming to each other to pull the jagged edges back together.
Hating the feel of the thickened, lightened skin
Where it once was perfect, untouched, now corrupted.
As soon as I feel it harden, I pick it away,
Keep the scar gone for one more day,
As it drowns in the blood.