Perfection
I pick at my nails effectively,
efficiently,
or gnaw at the cuticles like an animal
caught in a trap.
Over & over I promise I’ll stop; I won’t
take it too far. Then, I feel the sting of a hangnail
pulled too far, too deep.
The pain tells me I’ve made a mess of things again,
but I was only trying to make it perfect,
like they must have been, at some point.
Sucking at the broken skin, I promise this time
I’ll really stop,
all the while on my other hand
pick pick pick.
& if not my fingers, then my toes.
If not a nail, then a lip.
The acne scab from this morning
is long overdue; eyelash or brow can be plucked
indiscriminately.
Given the proper circumstances, I may tear away
my entire nail—scrape out my eye like sleep dust.
Given the proper circumstances, I may pry open my ribs
just to make sure my heart is still beating.
But I am just trying to be perfect.
I am just trying to understand,
and these scars
running down my fingers are a reminder
that I haven’t found it yet.
But perhaps if I dig
a little deeper,
the answers, like blood, will pool
at my fingertips.
