Maintenance

The water turned pink

somewhere between the fourth pass

and the fifth.

Not bright—

that would have been obvious,

would have made me stop.

Just a tint,

a suggestion,

the kind of thing you can tell yourself

isn't really blood

if you're not looking too close.

I looked down.

At my foot.

At the raw patches

where skin had worn away,

where something had shifted

from cleaning to punishment

and I kept going.

The pumice was still in my hand,

still wet,

still ready.

I could feel the pull toward it—

one more pass,

make it worse,

get there first

before anyone else could do it for me.

That's the thing about self-inflicted damage—

you can call it maintenance.

You can call it self-care.

You can call it necessary.

The water told the truth though.

The basin full of pink.

The raw skin.

The fact that my hands

were still holding the stone,

still wanting to scrub,

still thinking this was

something I deserved.

I set it down.

Looked at my foot

like it belonged to someone else,

like I was just a visitor

in this body,

just passing through,

just doing what needed to be done.

The water cooled.

The bleeding stopped.

Tomorrow the patches would scab.

Would toughen.

Would become something I could live with.

And I'd do it again.