Adaptive Denial
The thought is a soft whisper
familiar, curling at my thoughts.
A blade. A split. Decision, then release.
It doesn't need to shout.
It comes easy and practiced,
Habit built in time and need.
Not relief though, not really,
Just a quiet moment.
I know this feeling,
I know how it lies.
How it grows roots into habit
And attached to bone.
Pretending and ignoring
Are a practiced game I always lose
And bear the scars to prove it.
My body remembers
What I try to unmake.
I turn.
Not away,
But towards.
I press a knife of ink to my skin
Soft lines curling into petals
Where there might have been scars.
Red ink, not split skin.
Flowers not scars.
I draw
Vines on my wrists,
Thorns on my thighs,
As if leaves can teach my hands
A language without harm.
Today I choose,
For a minute or an hour,
To grow flowers
Where pain once asked to root.
And maybe tomorrow,
I will choose this garden
And it will be enough.