Scratches
I keep waking up
with scratches on my body,
thin red lines
dragged down my torso
like someone
tried to dig me open
in the night.
I think itโs my subconscious.
She waits
until I fall asleep,
until the confident woman
loosens her grip,
until the daylight voice
that tells me I am enough
goes quiet.
Then she comes forward,
ashamed and restless,
hands already searching.
She presses my nails into my skin
like sheโs found the door.
Like underneath
thereโs something she can remove
if she just tries hard enough.
She believes
the fat is the barrier.
The reason I shrink myself
before I enter a room.
The reason I overcompensate
with words and worth
and effort.
The reason I feel
like I must earn
every glance.
So she digs.
She claws at my body
like sheโs trying to pull it out,
like she can carve away
the softness
and finally let me breathe.
She scratches
because she is ashamed.
Ashamed of the weight,
ashamed of the space,
ashamed of the body
she thinks keeps me
from becoming.
Her hands move
like sheโs searching for the center,
like she believes
if she digs deep enough
she will reach something
she can fix.
And I let her.
I donโt wear mittens to bed.
I donโt stop her hands.
I let her scratch
through the quiet of night,
hoping one day
sheโll dig far enough
to reach my core.
Not fat.
Not shame.
Just the center of me.
My soul.
And maybe
when she reaches it
sheโll stop.
Maybe sheโll rest
in that quiet place
and realize
there was nothing to remove.
Maybe sheโll stay there
and finally understand
that who I am
was never buried
under anything at all.
But until then,
Iโll keep waking up
with scratches.
