Skin.

I like picking the skin--

that lies in the slim trench beside my nail,

I peel it away methodically,

knowing the tricks of the trade.

One layer peeled away,

I wait for it to become sensitive,

one little dig at the corner and it turns into a fresh red cherry.

How I see it ripen! ready to be plucked and felt.

A smooth pain starts at the crescent of my nail

isn’t it almost liquidy, this kind of pain?

so little yet so filling! fills up my entire body’s need

to feel something.

I dig at it, this tiny area of inconsequential skin,

with little stabs, like a dog searching for a hidden bone

little doses of pain rises, filling my heart’s hunger

to feel something.

While I feed on these juices,

Reason tracks my level of idiosyncrasy,

Am I normal? Is this normal!?

this sudden fervor need to feel something?

Just then,

tantalizingly, a rich apple of agony dangles in front of me

almost tangible,

and my heart wants to lecherously suck on its curve.

It envelops me in its wistful presence,

little by little, every inch of me is covered

almost molten, my skin-hot, is dipped in torment.

That small little pain now seeps into my skin all over,

assuredly, it sits in…it sets in.

And, I am appeased.

Now,

Tell me,

Is it Skin I am wearing or Pain?