self-harm recovery methods 

i found a neon orange bandaide
stuck to the sidewalk. there are bandaides
everywhere if you're looking for them.
i stopped to look at it too long. bright
& blaring color. i thought maybe
if i pulled the bandaide up
a spout of blood would spring up 
from the hot cement. 
the world is full of managable wounds.
i didn't pick up the bandaide. 
i kept walking & felt the presence of
my skin as a veil or maybe an truly an organ. 
when i was little i fashioned my own bandaides
from toilet paper & scotch tape.
i scratched scabs open at night
to watch the blood make the cut or scrape
an entrances again. i was 
so full of blood. i can't live here
much longer. there are too many
details. it depends on who you're talking to
what is or isn't a controllable lesion.
skin is everywhere & not just 
in the city. cows' skin dies & becomes 
pairs of shoes. the city is full of
pairs of shoes. no blood with that skin
just the blood of feet.
stuck here on the sidewalk. a remnant.
was the scrape on their hand or 
on their knee or on 
the back of their neck? have we 
been severed in the same places?
i prefer to let my cuts dry 
in the open air. i like to watch 
them becoming maroon seams. me, a great 
table clothe or maybe a bedsheet.
how do you imagine your skin?
i want it tidal. i want the texture
of apricots. whoever was held together
my the neon orange bandaide
might be totally disappeared.
people come & go in this city.
people evaporate into their wanting.
there, a cloud of bandaides & next
a whole skyscraper & then i sleep
underneath one. healing presses 
downward but has never rid me
of blood. it is summer in manhattan 
& i believe in swallowing.