in the fleshy round beneath my thumb
only just below the surface i can see it
don't know where i picked it up a banister
a door jam some unfinished board i am careless
with rough edges
and now i sit in the fluorescent
corporate daylight glare
my stare a frown i dig with
bitten nails drawing blood
the compulsion setting in between
my brows it must come out
it must i pick and squeeze
pull and pick memories are sharp
little fuckers they catch right
under your consciousness and you
rehash whole conversations
play the same sad songs and wonder
why your hand is such a torn up mess
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