Pick Me

Can’t touch my own face

without dull hoes trying to dig up 

weeds that have already rooted. 

How patched up and damaged 

I must appear with tilled, rouge soil 

and shallow, black roots. 

Here I go, carving out jagged ditches of crimson 

where smooth layers of caramel 

and almond used to be.

How discomforting it is knowing 

the bumps and scabs and scars 

are there whether my nail is digging at them 

or not. 

The restlessness surging through me,

searching for a distraction

my toes, my toes mimicking the pattern 

Of my fingers, that’s sure to occupy

my destructive habit

I feel nerves encouraging muscles 

suggesting, demanding I

interrupt the space that layers

my face with hedges that ruin

when persistent