ART BY STELLA OMENETTO

Content Warning: Self-Harm

Thawing of a frost that was never there brings
the cold affliction of remembering:
smell of fig leaves,
sheen of that crease where forearm embraces—kisses—briefly
freckled bicep, finally understands what it is to miss—
to be missing from—
Fleshy upper thigh, nearly hip,
Bled dry in January.
As I am not so flexible,
will never know another part of myself, save for the
fingertips which held it taut
that morning. I know
my hair is not my hair
from one year ago,
doesn’t wince at the thought of that acidic hot water which I
once believed was the only thing that could
clean me. My skin today must surely be
even younger.

I am often tempted to mourn the blisters which I earned (or so I thought).
Why couldn’t I keep them if I wanted?