Fingertips, the eyes of my pain, the readers of my skin. Skin, the geography of my soul, the pain etched there with distraction of the moment. Would that I could have tattooed it all...
I pick. I pick my scabs. Off. I don't eat them. I don't know why. It soothes me when I am upset. It slows and stops me when my mind is on overdrive and goes a million miles an hour. It calms me when I feel overwhelmed. It distracts me when the reality of the world becomes all too real for me and I am saddened. It stops me from daydreaming. One conflict is enough to drive me to ruining every ounce of healing my body has poured forth from within. Threat of any possible conflict is enough to drive me to the same.
I used to have better control over this. I had a few spots on my derriere because I'd get a little zit here and there from sitting at my job all day. Once in a while, or once a month, I might get one on my forehead or a shoulder. I could get into a bathing suit and go swimming without a second thought. Not today. Not now.
The geography of my skin has sucked all of my focus to it now. My fingertips, so sensitive, every centimetre of smooth skin measured, weighed, found lacking. Smooth becomes a mountain. Oh no! A bump! Get it off get it off get it off! There is pain sometimes, yes. Infection sometimes, yes. I am too ashamed to go have a doctor look at it more than the single time I let one see.
Fingertips find a rough spot or a bump, it feels like Mount Olympus! Get it off! Razor edge fingernails dig at the edge, lifting slightly, sliding under and pulling more. There is tearing, a brief flash of burning sensation as the new unhealed raw skin is uncovered yet again. Beloved smoothness and a feeling of relief so great I could weep. Blood flows, nobody notices it with my black pants. I always wear black pants. I don't wear white shirts anymore either. Dark colored apparel is the ticket for me now that I am engaging in a daily flow of flesh and blood.
Bloody bits down the sink drain. Parts of me thrown away like so much trash. Little tidbits down the toilet along with the waste. I wonder if the carpet bugs have enough to eat these days?
Why. Why? I don't know. I only know that it must stop as I am a ruin of flesh.
I cannot stop. Help me.
