The marks we leave on ourselves

I found it this morning

wound so tight

the skin had given in

to the pressure—

a perfect red line

where I'd held myself

without knowing.

My wrist remembers

what my mind forgets:

that I was somewhere yesterday,

doing something,

thinking too hard about it,

and my hands

decided

to hold.

The rubber band is ordinary,

the kind you find

in junk drawers,

the kind that holds

the things you didn't want

to fall apart.

Now it's holding

a memory

I don't have,

a moment

I wasn't paying attention to,

a small red mark

that says:

you were here,

you were stressed,

you did this

to yourself

without asking.

I unwound it.

The mark stayed.

It will fade by tonight,

maybe by tomorrow,

and I'll forget

that my body knows things

I don't,

that stress lives

in my hands

like a habit,

like a prayer,

like a small

and honest

confession.

But for now,

the mark is here,

and I understand finally

what I've been holding

so tight.