I take a tweezer to my chest and I pull fat yellow strands, like grubs,

Out

It’s a nightmare- it leaves holes in every place I pulled

I am fixated, determined; my mind cannot rest until it is done

Every, last, one.

There is some satisfaction in that, even if the results are ugly

Pull, release, discard

This is my own chest

This is my own, flesh?

I didn’t even know these grubs,

But I guess I felt them,

Like a burning in my chest

A deep seething hatred for myself

The worst part is that we’re related, somehow

And it’s that “somehow” that gives me pause

What do you do with disdain

For something inside of your skin?

What do you do with disgust

For something that’s within?

I guess I’m not sure you can remove it all,

Without leaving holes in your chest

Perhaps I need to learn to sew

To close the holes I left