i've fallen down again. i'm sitting, crying on the sidewalk in front of my house, in front of the woods. i scraped my knee and the red came gushing out. ma came and kissed the wound, drawing the blood into her teeth like a fly draws sugar from the dead. it's like i'm a vampire. you're gonna be just fine.

i'm in the backyard playing by the mulberry tree, wearing flip flops--back when i wasn't scared to show my feet. that's not important. don't sweat the blemishes and don't sweat the scars, don't pick at them because you'll just make them worse. so i picked at the tree and the berries and crushed them between my toes, staining my soles beet red and magenta. painting the blemishes, the warts, the ugly, in a beautiful red.

i used to sit in the bathroom in 40 minute sessions and pick at my skin with a needle. i'd tear at my skin to draw blood, to color the ugly as a wound rather than just my skin. but it's okay, a scar is a scar, i'm gonna be just fine. but you pick at it anyway, and it's becoming a real problem. shoes in the pool, shoes at the beach, socks to bed, bandaids, and markers. you color it, and you hide it. ma didn't understand why i was so obsessed, why i was so fixated. scarlet is the color that runs under my skin, and i want the world to know it.