There is a little fleck of blood
lightly smeared inside my yellow shirt
hiding like a speck of paint
from a day’s work that I did not do.

It is a thing of shame because impulse
prevents me from being sane
as I scratch at scabs I know would heal
if not for the urge I have
to pull and peal until
a speck of blood pools
inside my now open wound
which is less than half the size
of real life bullet holes.

Now some sheets at the hotel
hide a small blood spot,
but you’d have to be an expert
to find it amidst the folded fields
of thin bleached white covers.

Like someone being abused
I try to cover this ****** bruise
this scab that wounds my fragile ego
making me feel uglier than I did
cause I can’t help picking at it.