Self-Inflicted I love the scrape, the scar, the damp rush of blood the moment before the skin breaks; when my body and its disease hold each other like two people fucking in the dark, pissing in each other's mouths to feel how much we can dirty ourselves but still come clean: revel in not knowing why it all makes sense under the sheets the way it never does in daylight, when I pick the stale scabs of evidence from the pillow in a worthless shame I decry as discretion; pad the red wounds dry to scab another night scraping myself down to my favorite size. Don’t apologize; never explain. My body is the only one who never turns me down, but I do it to be bloody, I do it to be alive: to spite the worthless shit that says no every day in the mirror. Take a look at him; he hasn’t a drop of shame to spare. That’s why I take him undercover; to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.