Skin: A poem about cutting

Your skin is the only thing keeping you together.

You like to poke holes to see if it might suddenly give way.

Sometimes, you feel like a balloon with a small leak.

He likes to pick your scabs while you lay in bed together. He asks you questions:

Why do you cut yourself?

Does it feel good to cut yourself?

Would you stop cutting if I loved you?

You tell him you’ve been cutting since the eighth grade. Now, well into your twenties, you don’t remember how to do anything else.

Except sex, he says. You remember how to do that.

“Yes,” you agree.

Sex is just another hole being poked.

Photo by Devon Adams.

Photo by Devon Adams.

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