You Were Looking

A poem about self harm.

You were looking at the red string tied around my left wrist, the red string of fate that my mom tied around my wrist last Saturday. I saw your gaze moving up towards my hands and I knew what was coming. You zeroed in on my fingers and asked me why? ‘Why are you picking at your fingers?’ You told me that it was ugly, and I can’t tell you how much it hurt for you to say those things. My hands are what create my writing, my hands are my link to art. It killed me.I pulled away, and you continued to take it all in, for a singular naive moment I thought you were going to reassure me, but you clearly didn’t see anything worth reassuring. I look at your scars like a delicate galaxy painted across your skin. The whole universe not possible without each of those scars and all you see in me is the mess I made of my own skin.