Old Scratch

There’s an old voice at my ear, chews daily at my hands, makes me pick and tear at scabs, pulling up hunks of flesh.

A scratch a day, keeps the nails bloodied and fresh. It’s honest this way, wounds kept in plain view.

I still hover over them, but now I run my nails over the surface but don’t dig. Whatever’s in there stays put.

I imagine sometimes, an unmarked body. Clear clean skin, still smooth to the touch.

and then I step out of the shower and the moment dissipates into the cool air