graphic by roxanne cubero
Your mother always told you not to pick at scabs
Imagine it’s not real
You’ve never been able to leave well enough alone.
This time is no different
You’ve found a scab
Your fingertips
run
over it
constantly.
Almost like a game of endurance
(You pretend there’s something to be won.)
You don’t even remember how you got the scab to begin with
(That’s what you tell yourself, anyways.)
You may not remember, but part of you knows;
It’s hard not to when devastation
heaves through your body
You don’t remember how you got the scab
But, maybe you do
Sometimes, you can see the sunlight f i l t e r i n g through the blinds and feel–
You don’t remember how you got the scab
So it demands your attention
You’ve never been a good sleeper.
(Don’t think about it and choke down the other half of your sedative.)
You don’t remember how you got the scab
Yet it follows your every move
And just when you think you’ve made it out from its grasp
Your nails catch on it and you pull
You don’t remember how you got the scab
Its bloody trail is snapped into focus
Relieving and horrifying in equal parts
(Resist the urge to break something.)
You don’t remember how you got the scab.
Was there ever even a scab?
It’s certainly convenient for you
You’ve always been a difficult child.
You don’t remember how you got the scab
Isn’t that pathetic?
Here you are, cleaning up the mess of something you can’t describe
(Avoid yourself in the mirror.)
You can’t remember how you got the scab
Gag around the truth of it.
Like a dog in a cage, curling into yourself
There will be no comfort here.
You can’t remember how you got the scab
Each failed attempt to mocks you
You get close and your skin crawls
Something inside you scrambles back
You can’t even remember how you got the scab.
Not enough to make sense, anyways
Still, you think
if you dig your nails in deep enough
This time will be different