Feb 29

Like scratching at a scab,
you destroy the natural boundary
between blood and infection,
reintroducing old arguments,
ones that were healing,
or at least neatly covered up,
and sure there was still slight
annoyance,
but now you sit there,
a tissue to your face,
feeling disgraced,
a futile cover-up that lasts
merely seconds,
trying to wipe away the
evidence,
embarrassed your hands
don’t move in the same
steady circular motions as
time.

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