The devil you know

I bite

until the skin breaks

until red blooms

like guilt

on my hands.

it isn’t pain

it’s penance—

for something

I can’t remember doing

but my mind

won’t let me forget.

“just one more,”

it whispers

like a lover

with cruel lips—

“just one more and you’ll feel clean.”

but I never do.

I bleed

in the quiet

on buses

in bedrooms

beneath tables

smiling

as the war

rages on

in my bones.

it’s not a habit.

it’s a prison

with invisible bars

and I am both inmate

and warden

and I’ve forgotten

what it feels like

to be free.

but god—

how I still dream

of hands

that don’t hurt

to hold.