Cuts (this is a second poem today to make up for yesterday)

I found a cut on my arm,
a cut I didn't remember
taking at all.
And I find them
often
when I'm most
relaxed and have
time to look
at what my body's
been up to while I
wasn't paying attention.
More and often and less
I think or reason or know
that my mind and my
body are different
persons and love
each other less
and more
often as the case
may be.
But then
I'm ready for two selves,
One that does everything
while the other does
nothing. One the moves,
one that changes. One
that hurts, one that bleeds.