Something That Won't Leave

It's deep now.

I made it deep,

digging with the needle,

trying to catch it,

trying to pull it out before the skin

heals over the top

and traps it inside me forever.

But now it's infected.

Now there's a red circle

that wasn't there yesterday,

and the dark line is deeper,

and it won't come out,

and my hand is shaking

because I'm thinking about

what happens if I stop digging,

if I let it live under my skin,

if I just accept that something

foreign is part of me now.

I could go to a doctor.

I could tell someone

that I have a splinter

that I can't remove,

that I made it worse,

that I can't stop trying.

But I don't.

Instead I keep digging,

keep looking for the end of it,

keep believing that if I dig deep enough,

if I hurt myself enough,

if I make the hole big enough,

I can pull it out before it

becomes a permanent part

of who I am.

The circle gets redder.

The splinter gets darker.

The needle catches the light

and I can see how small it is,

how small the thing is

that I'm doing this to myself over,

how small and stupid

and how I can't stop.

I dig again.

Blood now.

The splinter is still there.

The splinter wins.