Evening

With band-aids torn off in disgust
I flung myself into bed and slept
            for a million years,
with a false sense of bliss.
I pulled and picked at cuticles,
made deep cuts that swelled,
            my fingers ice cold red
from all the biting.
When I shoved my hands into
the pockets of my jacket,
            lint glued itself to
my open wounds.
They became dark blue,
strands of fibers stuck
            up like weeds in a field,
and I picked those too.
In bed I saw stars on my
ceiling from past lovers
            glowing white
and I stared at them until morning.
An ice bath for my hands
in the sink, they went numb
            so I couldn’t pick
anymore, but not for lack of trying.

Nick Soluri is an undergraduate at Union College in New York. His poetry has appeared in Occulum, Boston Accent, Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, The Slag Review, The Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and others. He lives in North Carolina.