Zipped Mouth

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

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