supplication ovenbird For as long as I can remember I have been laying waste to my body in the tiniest increments–driven insane by a hangnail or a dry cuticle that can only be remedied, my brain insists, by tearing the offensive parts off with my teeth. So I bite down into my own flesh until I bleed. I've been told this is a form of body dysmorphia, but it's always felt like a slow and ineffective suicide. I'm too afraid to cut deeper but something in me still wants to draw blood, I still want to walk right up to the threshold of pain to see what’s on the other side. It's not even a conscious act. It just happens, teeth tearing at the periphery of self and then life dripping from my fingertips. I bandage the wounds and decide, as I always do, that even as I snag on the ragged edges of the world, there is something worth meeting with my palms open in supplication. 250508 what's it to you? who go blather from