I pick & pick & pick.
I peel the layers off, satisfyingly.
I watch the blood ooze out.
Slowly running down arms and legs.

I pick & pick & pick again.
I tear the skin off, contently.
I watch the skin reveal pink flesh.
Slowly, I feel alive.

I keep thinking of you;
I pick the scab.

I keep remembering everything;
I pick the scab.

Flashes of your face invoke my memories;
The blood runs.

The sound of your laugh enters my mind;
The blood drips.

I go to places that were special to us;
I smile.

I pretend you’re there with me;
I laugh.

I sit in silence--
I talk in my head.
I even scream sometimes.
All while I pick & pick & pick some more.

The same cycle occurs over and over again:
I pick, bleed, then heal.

Healthy,     isn’t it?