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.

I was only fourteen
When you told me
You "didn't date guys
Like me."

You don't know
How many years I struggled
To figure out
What that could mean

I have a scar on the bottom of my left thumb.
I got it
The day after you broke my heart the second time.
I was trying to open something with a knife
And it slipped.
It went straight in
Point first
Right at the joint between my thumb and the pad of my hand
That fleshy spot that is always stretching and wrinkling.
I was shocked at first- it went in deep
Almost two inches.
I suppose, maybe, I should have gotten stitches.
But what I did instead was pull the point out
pop
It made a small sound
Like I was unstopping a tiny bottle of wine.
In fact the hole in my hand
Remained clean and white and surprised
For a moment
Startled, I think, by its own existence.
And then it caught up to itself all at once
And bubbled up thick red blood
Faster than I expected it to.
Beads of it slid down my fingers.
Soon my hand was slick with it
Shaking
And I was still fascinated, transfixed,
Slow.
When the first drop hit the carpet
I figured I should go into the bathroom and let the tiles take the stains.
On the way there the world tilted a little
Since now I held in my cupped hand a small pool of red.
I resented my body's need for its own blood.
Its fragility.
It is so needy and so frail
And I have no patience for it.
On my knees on the smooth cold white floor
And then with my cheek pressed against it
To calm the fever of "shock"
I hated that my shell could steal my will.
I stood again in a moment
Having left a smudge on the floor
And my hand dripped
pat pat pat
Onto the tiles.
The smoothness of my own blood surprised me-
Its tendency to slip away and stand in pools.
Again I looked for a moment
And then ran my hand beneath the faucet
And marveled at the way the water was instantly crimson.
It kept running and running down the drain
And after a while I realized that it was unlikely to stop.
Lifting my now white hand
I peered at it
And there was the hole in it-
A perfect slit, deep and clean and filling up with dark sticky red fluid.
It overflowed again and I did my best to wrap it in bandages.
The bathroom looked like a ****** scene.
Who knew my hands
Held so much?
Who knew we were so easily punctured and drained?
It took a long time to heal.
I kept ripping it open by accident over and over
Because of its prime location in the crease of my hand.
It was weeks, really, before it actually did close.
And weeks more
Before it finally became less of an angry red
And more of a thick, shiny pinkish white.
It is raised.
It still hurts sometimes, even though it has been months healed.
I rather like it.
I like the gory proof of what I went through when you walked away.
It's just a small reminder,
A little white ridge and a tightness on my skin
But
Well
They say you don't know anything
Quite so well as the look of your own hands
And
I think it is appropriate that the landscape of mine
Was forever changed
When you left.

As it penetrates deeper into my skin I can feel a rush of memories seeping from my heart mind and soul never to be seen again apart from a small scar to prove that its gone and not inside me anymore eating away from inside out sometimes I wonder what would happen if I got rid of all the pain and memories would anyone miss me miss the pain I have put them through???...

god, you are
so beautiful
i want to
drown myself
in your
love i am tired
of developing
an ill
stomach over
someone who
will never love
me back i fall
in love with
people who
scar my
heart and
bruise my
arms and
burn my
thighs, people
who have
made me
scream in
the middle
of the
night but you,
god you are
so beautiful
i want to
drown myself
in your
love.