Evolution

I guess the first real cuts were more than they needed to bethe number of times I’d twirled the blade constructingstillborn balsa skeletons, stegosauri and plesiosaursalways amputating a rib or femur by accident, preferringto leave them undone rather than crippled, all to givemy parents something to approve, a hobby to be doneat the kitchen table in full view of everyone, even ifit was rather a boyish pursuit, there I’d be shaving splintersoff a near-smooth pubis when I’d drag the sharp tip overmy knuckles drawing a bloodless furrow, shallow, nothingto worry over, then in science while I was supposedto be coloring in a diagram of a shield volcano, I’d borrowa little magma red and trace my cold wrist veins hot, againno harm, just another line on my body, impermanent, steadyand if I took a picture and sent it to you it was just aninteresting project, I mean, how many texts does a queen beeget each day and how does she decide which to respond tothrough all that buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz like my mom describesan old busy tone, like our math teacher lecturing – the blamedoesn’t belong with you for these jagged scars, the cutsonce begun took on a life of their own, like they were gazelleswith the realization of what I was doing to myself, a cheetahobviously too slow or not hungry enough, trotting at the endand then you couldn’t visit me, though the get well cardwas nice – I never pictured you as the flowery type – but thathasn’t harmed my image of you. I don’t think anything can.