Scabs

And my back is scarred.

Picking scabs with long fingernails.

Picking scabs and finger-painting what loneliness would look like on the surface of Mars on a piece of looseleaf.

Picking scabs and sleeping in a haunted house that isn’t really haunted.

Picking scabs and stapling rejection letters to my face so people don’t assume I’m a failure.

Picking scabs and branding my forearm with a hot iron rod at work, thinking: This will last forever.

Picking scabs because I watched my father do it when I was a kid.

Picking scabs.

And my back is scarred.

Forming new scars like islands emerging from the depths of the Pacific.

I take my shirt off and twist my upper half so I can see red and white spots.

I imagine them all fusing together into one wound.

And my back is scarred.

Self-conscious.

I write, HELP ME with a black sharpie across my stomach and never take my shirt off for anyone ever again.