The first time I was in bed with a man, he scanned the landscape of my body and asked, “What is this?”

“Discoloration,” I replied. It wasn’t a lie, but it was only a corner of the truth.

I didn’t have it in me to tell him that I caused it. That it was me who picked at my skin with well-chewed nails until I bled. That those maroon spots were the aftermath of my inability to hold still.

In that moment, I learned a truth that’s haunted me since: I have the kind of body that needs explanation. My face, head, and breasts are all littered with dots, uneven terrain shaped by the shovel of my index finger. I’ve picked at myself for so long that I worsened my wrist injury, but I still can’t seem
to stop. There’s a voice echoing in my mind, that something would go terribly wrong if I didn’t scrape this patch of skin.

And scrape it again.

And again.

My mind is convinced that there is a cosmic imbalance that only force of habit can calibrate. I’m so committed to saving the world that if I ever went bald, I would look like a bulbous moon—littered with self-made craters.

I think back on the question the man asked me in bed and try to imagine a more truthful answer. When he asks, “What is this?” I could say that I was enacting the will of a god I can’t name, or it’s merely proof that I am a glutton for self-punishment. But I know that even if I said all this, he would
not have understood.

He would suggest I “just stop,” as if that weren’t the very thing I have tried to do for decades. As if two mere words can combat the potion of genetics, compulsion, and context. The worst part is—I would know that he is not wrong. That I should “just stop.” The only problem is:

I do not know how.

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Cypher (she/her) is a self-taught brown and queer Tamizh diaspora poet living in Canada. Her writing is deeply musical, political, philosophical, and introspective. Her work has been featured by Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Arcana Poetry Press, FeelsZine, and several other publications.

Instagram: @cypherspace_101