Why are we compelled to poke our bruises?

Whether black, blue, splotchy purple

A sickened yellow

We know to expect pain

But we have no reason to expect such a thing

It is all self-inflicted, see

Just as I walk through the streets of Seattle

Almost-blonde hair in my mental eye

Ice blue orbs freezing my skin

Sharp nails stabbing my arm

I can see it all so vividly

Feel it all so clearly

I put on one of the playlists filled with memories of her

Each song a memento to the time I was too ignorant, or perhaps

too reluctant

To see how she polluted my waters

It has been so long since I spent mental energy on her

One might say too long

Why am I compelled to poke my bruises?

The crescent cuts are gone

My slumped back has vanished

But                          

The ringing in my ears remains

Still I curl into myself with every raised voice

Glimpses of any teal or fleece jacket continue to send chills from

my shoulders to my knees

The bruises have long faded from yellow by now

Still I feel the echoes of handprints and stabbing fingers

Reverberating through my skin

My hide is tough

But that is not to say it is not scarred

I am strong

But that is not to say I did not have moments of weakness

I am forgiving

But that is not to say I have forgotten

Or is that why we are compelled to pick our scabs?

The fear of forgetting

In our efforts to not be wounded anew

We rip apart our own skin

Pain, after all, is safer when self-inflicted

Or so we tell ourselves

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