Scab

Made clear:
you see a box with a check mark in it
on my face
whenever you look at me.

I run my hand
over my forehead —
it feels as it always does.
When did I get this?

I don’t see it, myself,
when I look in the mirror.
Perhaps I’m
selectively blind?

Or perhaps the check box
is so large I can’t feel it
because all of me is inside?
That may be.

Maybe I made the check
in the box with every word
and deed, and all you’re doing
is reading it.  Or perhaps

there’s no box on me at all
and the image is burned
into your eyes and brain
so that when you look at anything

you see it and judge accordingly?
It’s not hard to want to believe that.
It certainly would take the pressure off of me
to believe that,

which is why I’m doubly pressured
to scrub myself as hard as I can
until I bleed before I go out
into the world,

and why I am still uncertain,
and cowardly. I may not see it,
but I can feel that I’ve turned myself
into a scab just for you.