I bite my fingers when I’m stressed,



and won’t stop until I notice the blood on my lip in the mirror.

By then,

mostly everyone I’ve passed on the way to the restroom has seen it.

Sometimes I wonder how many times

I’ve signed my name in blood

without realizing it.

I wonder if I’ll ever know.

Lined paper does that to me,

makes me nervous.

Makes me wish I could dip it in bleach

so I could watch the perfect blue lines slowly fade away.

Even the bounding edges of this scrap piece of white paper

make me uneasy,

as if it’s doubting my ability to make words across this table worthwhile.


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