I pick at my skin. Right now there is a small hole
next to my mouth, just below my left cheek.

I say “hole.” I think of deeper, darker holes
in friendlier ground, soil that does not erupt with blood.

This isn’t a hole in my face, then, but a simple
depression. It is a blemish, an irregularity.

Ironically, it was with the intent to rid my face
of a blemish that it arose. One iteration of a cycle.

The smart thing to do would be to bandage it
and leave it alone. Instead, my fingers wander

like ivy on a brick wall, clinging, grasping, searching
for imperfections to root into, deepen, and destroy.