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Even When I Try To Forget, I Still Pick Myself Apart Over You

I pick at you like I pick my face.
Hidden, in my own presence,
free to hang up the facade I lug around like religion.
It’s just me.
I avoid mirrors.
My reflection reveals my true form,
Inadequate, almost, never will be, try again, better luck next time
I count in ugly.
Eyes, mouth, body
Lies, smile, thoughts
Then, I document the severity in comparison to yesterdays damage
I get carried away
(daydream of poise
 dripping confidence)
(you, the loss of us, and what it felt like)
I’ve convinced myself I can prove worthy 

If I erase it all, adapt to the molds proving
Happy, successful, loved, admired.
So I pick.
Scorn at myself for existing in such a manner,
Rip at every flaw, no matter how minor.
I only stop once my face is swollen and red.
Once I’m a visible deformity reflecting what lies inside.
Just the same,
after a full day of omitting you from all thought… I pick.
An orchestra led by Instability herself soothes me
She convinces me this time it’ll feel good
She blinds me with the promise of perfection
A rattled mental sitting in a desolate body
Scavenging memory for debris left behind.
Parts I’d never gotten around to confronting—
Deep seeded recollections
How your embrace was once a sanctuary
How we burned down to ashes
Vulnerable moments held between bodies
Arguments that neither of us wanted
Contradictions that emerged beneath us, hills growing into mountains
The unforeseen that never gave birth
A collapsed foundation that was never built to hold me.
I pick until I’m bleeding inside.
Until I can only squeeze my eyes, scream for amnesia and pray.
I pick because maybe tomorrow it’ll heal
I pick because I can’t bear to see me anymore
I pick because I forgot I was supposed to forget you.