Do you hold certain moments of your life
On the skin of thought, so they stick out-
Like tiny sores.
Do you want to itch them, and pick them?
And dig deeper to find where they came from,
What made them ugly?
Digging only makes them uglier.
And scratching leaves bigger scars.
But the night is a mirror
And with glassy doppelgängers closing in,
Plucking at thoughts with bits of skin,
You can't leave well enough alone.