Dermatillomania by Kathleen Brien
I dig my nails like anchors into wood. Wood of soft and peachy skin, roughened up and split by my needy grip of long and slender limbs. A tree with broken bark – my arms with torn up skin, busted up, by a wood chipper hand, small welts form on my skin surface. It’s the afterglow of piercing nails. In my vacated mind, thoughts of dull pain fill. Sawdust settles after close examination; there’s a drug of satisfaction in the puss, the seed, the sap of this bending tree.
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