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.