There is a scratch I cannot itch
on the surface of my belly,
where my nails used to dig deeper and deeper
until I bit them off one nervous night
and the prettiness of my hands,
of the delicacy of my fingers,
were chewed up mindlessly since old habits
die hard.
I cannot scratch this itch
no matter how many tears are shed
or nails are grown
because this itch burns deeper than old wounds.
It begs to be remembered,
begs time and time again to be known,
swelling on the surface of my sunken belly.
Without nails, without beauty,
I scratch my way to the bone
where the little voice lays in the cracks of my soul
and tells me to remember the ugly inside
the thoughts wither away and an old habit revives
itching, just itching, bleeding for life.
Though my nails have cracked
and my hands are sore,
my stomach expands with lines marked
from long nights before.
I remember then what I tried to forget,
because old habits only die
when new ones replace it.
