In this memory

In this memory I have blood in my nails and when I bring my fingertips to my mouth they taste like somebody else's.

In this memory I am not ready. Not oven ready like the laws of science that dictate the knife will come out clean.

In this memory I am fumbling through a bag. Perhaps my own. I feel the cool sharp of a set of keys, the stabbing point of a pen, I feel the bilious cushion of a receipt-bloated wallet, I feel sunglasses a notebook and some loose change.

In the next memory the light appears soft like forgiveness, the kind you offer yourself before anyone else. My hands feel down the wall in front me as though I am wiping them clean but when my hands come away nothing is left there to mark the wall. But my palms now sport visible scratches and the bumpy skin mirrors the landscape of the wall, patterned like my legs with fishnet stockings recently removed.

In this memory I am scratching a pock-red bite on my upper leg, it feels wonderful and the more I claw at it, the more satisfaction I feel. In this scene I try and stop myself before I break through skin, but I have not enough will to withstand the immense pleasure, and I bleed.

And so i return.

In this memory I have blood in my nails and when I bring my fingertips to my mouth they taste like somebody else's.