photo credits here, edited.
by Ang Jing Han
I open holes on my soles
Use the skin
To cover up the holes in my soul
(Not a holy soul, but a holey soul)
Red glowing patches of hardened skin
Picked away from my palms
(“Your hands are so soft,” she remarked as she held my hand)
A reminder of the household chores
I have yet to do
It is picking away at me
This skin-picking problem
Picking away at my time
And my mother’s patience:
“Skin pick already don’t clean up, make me clean up for you!”
Picking away at my soul
My holey sole