Psoriasis
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My hands are like knives
And my flesh the meat
I carve my body
Aching in defeat
Again and again
Each slice is a blow
To the touch is a rush
I still wish to not know
as if the bruises from my self conscious's grip weren't enough of a reminder of these
A tiny figure curled up in bed,
Like a baby in the womb.
I must not make noise.
I must hear her steady breathing.
I must rub her back,
And hold her warm, little hand.
I must make sure she feels safe,
