He starts putting salve on his back again.
It's a mess of red scratches and lines.
Some are new, some are healing.
The oily herbal mixture stings.

He feels like he's losing his mind.
All he ever wants to do is cut.
Cut and sleep. Sleep and cut.
As he walks to school, he imagines taking a razor down the length of his arm.
As he sits in class, he imagines running a blade along his ribs.
As he walks home, he anticipates the joy of slicing open his back.

It doesn't hurt any more, not really.
At least, not right away.
There's a scratching pain,
Then the anticipation as the red line rises on his skin.
He waits to see the beautiful black beads of blood.

The lines hurt at other times, though.
His should bag chaffs against the cuts.
Healing scars buckle when he dances.
And his fellow boxers notice the marks.
He's had to lie about the scratches in the locker room and in the ring.
Pretty soon, someone is going to ask to meet his cat.

He wants to stop.
Adults don't solve their problems this way.
He doesn't want to stop.
Cutting keeps the little boy in his head quiet.

He's trapped in a self-perpetuating loop.
He just wishes someone could see.