Spots

There are two worn spots on my hairline,

My loctician knows them well.

Every time I visit her, she pauses there.

She drags her fingers across the scars,

She pulls a comb and makes a part.

She observes the shape and colour

Of something she doesn’t understand.

It might look like a spot scratched too hard once.

But why are there two?

It may look like a pimple popped poorly.

But why are they identical?

It might look like an odd, symmetrical burn.

But who uses heat on dreads?

My loctician and I see those spots,

And they’re our secret.

She doesn’t ask

So I don’t tell her,

That those spots are where my hands naturally reach to,

When I’m siytting at the kitchen table,

Poring over a job application,

My journal,

Or my phone.

I don’t tell her, my fingers juke

And pick

And peel

Until I rip out hair and skin and scar tissue.

Until the skins’ about to break.

And when the scab forms,

I pick and peel and rip again.

Until my anxious mind gets quiet.

And my fingers finally fall asleep.

And then, my wounds close,

And my flesh heals.

And I pray, like she does,

That my hair finds the courage

To regrow in those tattered spots.