I am a collection of scabs
Reminders of my constant levels of stress
Boredom and accident prone nature
I broke one bad habit of whittling away
The white crescent moons of my nails
To replace with the constant picking
Of newly formed raw layers of skin
My feet are atrocities hidden by socks and shoes
Shunned when bare
Not that I care for anyone’s opinion
Wicks on thumbs that are harder to hide
And displease my mother to great extent
‘They’ll get infected’ or ‘Be sore’
But how much worse can it be?
Than the worry that never leaves my body
Why else would my teeth tear at my encasings
If it didn’t long for freedom?
I used to declaw myself
Make sure no harm came to others
But the damage from biting my tongue
Has left deeper scars that may never heal
Because I always fight back
In some form or another.
– Little Ginge x
