i fought the monster under my bed
sharp teeth and cracking plastic fingers, how soft the addict touches their drug
and how violent they inflict it upon themselves.
i study, i write.
i deconstruct the bomb, i learn its hows,
i keep the bomb pieces in an empty shoebox
that has never known such soft things
while researching self injury, i have to browse pictures, measure
the numbers of it (frequency, distal proximity between wounds, depth in correlation to area)
occasionally stop and grab myself, apply pressure to white scars, mimic the
holding together, i shake and grab in moments of weakness, i let the craving
leave no marks. a long time ago i learned
to fear my own hands but
they've become such beautiful things lately.
i am no longer scared of any dark corners of my brain,
i understand them,
i tuck them in at night