Last night,
I picked my skin
until it looked like chipped paint on a wall,
peeled and peeled and peeled
like my foot was an orange.
I had to look at the inside of myself,
to see my flesh.
I had to remove the dead skin
to get to the part that felt
pain
and I don't know why but
it makes me feel better.

This morning,
I woke up to flakes of skin on my pillow.
I scooped them all up in my hand
and swept them under my bed.
I picked too deep;
I drew blood and my foot is bloody,
so now I walk on an open wound.
I didn't mean to go this deep
and I've done this before,
but I can't help this now.
I want to stop, but
every time the pressure builds inside my chest,
I pick
as a sort of reflex.
No one knows.

They call this skin picking, but
it's not picking; it's tearing myself apart
bit by bit, piece by piece.