The progress bar on the screen is stuck at ten

The progress bar on the screen is stuck at ten,

while the skin on my arm begins to pull and tight.

It’s a low-grade fire I have to fight again,

working its way through the middle of the night.

The pink, puckered edge is a raw and rising line

where the new cells are busy fixing what I broke.

I want to rake it clean, to make the surface fine,

but the itch is a heavy, persistent kind of yoke.

It’s the body’s way of saying it’s not done,

fighting the crust to close the jagged gap.

I sit in the glow of the work I haven’t won,

watching the blood rise up to fill the map.