Leaves of three and green.
Arcs in ridge curved backs,
birthing segments of bent ribs,
Waxen skin wanes comfort on peachy flesh,
to make red mounded mountains out of plains of blonde.
Once fingertraced delicately, now dug at bleeding and raw.
Not to hate one’s self, to pull pain hard under sharp fingernails,
but more just the carnal curiosity in an itch. A hidden sensation.
Something to dig for. Force smile and grit teeth.
And root out.