Kara Knickerbocker
SELF PORTRAIT WITH EXCORIATION DISORDER
I wish I could say the first time was also the last,
only it wasn’t: how I tore into my own skin, bright red
like Christmas morning, every moment in the mirror was a gift
opening, my body as crumpled tissue paper. I didn’t intend this, again,
(& again) but it happened: birth of blood ribbons, sharp spinning shame
under guilt-dangled bathroom lights, every ruined bedsheet & shirt stain
still itching beneath my fingertips. A sculptor chisels away at blocks until
they are beautiful & in that way, I am an artist against the canvas of my flesh.
O, to know the art of disappearing, & to do it well.
Every chipping away an apology, my nails digging
for the bottom of a scarlet sky, a perfect place to land—
my hands learning in rhythm,
the slow dances of erasing.