The flap of skin
left from yesterday’s laceration
is hanging on my finger.
It will not stay there.
I will lick it.
I will worry it.
I will tear it off
soon.

It cannot be helped.
This will happen
whether I plan it or not.
Eventually
the finger will end in my mouth
and my teeth will toy
with the skin.
Even as I try to stay away
it will be like the pink hippo
you’re supposed to ignore
but becomes the only thing
in mind.

I will eat my scar
and swallow the scab
It is fated.
I might as well lean into it
but treasure this healing wound
until I rip it out again.