Trigger warning: Implications of self-harm (skin picking).
There are constellations scattered across my skin,
But they are not the beautiful type.
These stars are not patterns of ink that I chose,
These stars are not trauma imprints.
These stars are a galaxy of my own undoing.
The constellations that speckle my shoulders,
My collarbone,
My back—
They are a consequence of my anxious habits.
They have come and gone,
Appeared and vanished in a haze
For as long as I can remember.
Right now,
These stars connect into a universe across my skin,
And it is the first time I hate space.
The picking and sliding of fingertips across my own flesh
Has caused an explosion of red and angry stars.
It is the first time I hate the constellations.
I stare in the mirror for a moment too long,
And suddenly things are bad again.
Sometimes I can control it—
The habitual design that my fingertips trace along my skin
When unsettling nervousness wars within me.
But now,
Now I don't even notice anymore.
I don't remember dragging my fingertips across skin,
I don't remember picking at stubborn bumps,
I don't remember how this habit became a habit,
I don't remember why this used to soothe me.
I tug on my shirt again.
God, please don't let anyone know how much I hate these constellations.
YOU ARE READING
In The Moonlight
PoetryThis poetry collection is for the midnight girls: the girls who sit by the moon and wonder if they have value; who dream of belonging to a home where judgement and shame do not exist; who hide their hearts and yet fall in love so easily. Disclaimers...
