Month of Poetry, Day 11

Cut

With a
sharp
pencil,
I trace
the white
line
between
the knuckles
of my
left thumb,

A one-inch
reminder
that once
I shaved
away a
sliver of
skin
with a
shard of
broken
mirror,

Because
someone
said I was
"Second
Best."

The pencil
digs in,
a smoky
gouge,

Because
hurting
myself
was always
the easiest
way to
hurt
other people.