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Pick, pick, pick

September 11, 2015
Posted at 3:53 pm

I picked the scab off again. The sore has been there a long time and every time I see it, I get mad that I got hurt and it isn't better and I pick at the damned scab. And then it bleeds and hurts some more, and I swear at the stupidity that caused the injury and at the wound itself.

If I left it alone, new skin would grow under the scab. The scab would loosen and flake away. One day I would be in the shower and wash the spot and realize there was nothing there. Perhaps a scar. A reminder that my body had once been injured and healed itself.

But I just can't leave it alone. I see it again and I get mad again and I pick off the scab and it bleeds again and it hurts again.

Because if I left it alone, I might forget about it one day. I might go happily on and not be angry. I might enjoy my life and not be consumed with bitterness that I was once injured.

And then I would be healed.