I don’t even notice when I start.
Fingers find skin like they’re searching for silence.
I pick until it stings, peel away the edge of something that wasn’t whole a moment ago.

It’s not pain I’m chasing.
It’s not anything,
really.

Just something to do with the noise in my head and the quiet in my chest.

Nails tear, skin rips off.

It’s not about thinking.
It’s about remembering what the mind tries to forget.

A habit.
A comfort.
A scar I’m still making with hands that just won’t rest.

I wish I could explain
how it helps,
even when it hurts.
How it feels like doing nothing
and everything
at once.