I pick at you like an old scab my mother has told me to let be
I must love the pain
I must enjoy the ache in my stomach
Because I come back to this like it’s the only watering well for miles
Seeking a taste of relief but the water is vinegar and I wince at its bitterness
I pick at you like an old scab
My flesh tender
I bleed and I ask myself why I’m so tired
Forgetting that I’ve slashed myself time and time again never letting the wound heal leaving a blood stain on every woman‘s bed since
I pick at you like an old scab