Insecurities

Obsession is my tattered fingertips;
the masochistic, paradoxical fetish
where beauty is elusive behind
the compulsion to disfigure.

I gnaw at the soft flesh and craft my
grotesque parade of skin-confetti,
knowing that I can't stop.

There is something gratifying there
that no one else understands, like
biting a fresh, crisp apple, the blood
dribbles down my fingers like juice.

And then-

Tenderly, lovingly, I bandage them,
not in shame but in sympathy for
those poor, abused appendages.

Greedily, I urge them to recover.

Tomorrow, I'll mutilate my insecurities again.