***If you self-injure, this poem could contain triggers.***
Sometimes my thighs burn when nothing’s even touching them.
My scars radiate as if the lighter were pressing down.
I run my fingers across my flesh searching for those indentations.
Each one with its own bitter memory,
10 years ago . . . 5 years ago . . . 2 years ago,
Each relapse etched into my mind.
I want to scoop them out with a spoon and throw them away,
Each tawdry moment of desperation.
Sometimes those thinned layers of skin are enough to transport me through time.
I know exactly where I was – exactly what I thought – exactly what I felt.
Scars fade and yet sometimes I feel as if they’re brand new.
I carry them in precious little boxes,
Each one its own photo album and home movie,
Preserving my shame, my despair, my darkest moments . . .