Serra Sanzo

Perfection

I pick at my nails effectively,

efficiently,

or gnaw at the cuticles like an animal

caught in a trap.

Over & over I promise I’ll stop; I won’t

take it too far. Then, I feel the sting of a hangnail

pulled too far, too deep.

The pain tells me I’ve made a mess of things again,

but I was only trying to make it perfect,

like they must have been, at some point.

Sucking at the broken skin, I promise this time

I’ll really stop,

all the while on my other hand

pick pick pick.

& if not my fingers, then my toes.

If not a nail, then a lip.

The acne scab from this morning

is long overdue; eyelash or brow can be plucked

indiscriminately.

Given the proper circumstances, I may tear away

my entire nail—scrape out my eye like sleep dust.

Given the proper circumstances, I may pry open my ribs

just to make sure my heart is still beating.

But I am just trying to be perfect.

I am just trying to understand,

and these scars

running down my fingers are a reminder

that I haven’t found it yet.

But perhaps if I dig

a little deeper,

the answers, like blood, will pool

at my fingertips.