Saturday, April 20, 2013


He picked at the scab.
Flakes, black and crusted
Fall away.
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
My stomach churns.
I don’t know why.
I know there are far worse things.
My mother always said
That picking scabs leaves scars.
This is a line in the sand.
It separates those who pick
From those who don’t.
I baby my scabs,
Cover and shelter them until
They are strong enough
To protect me, shelter me,
From the outside,
Until I heal,
Emerging from my cocoon,
Baby soft and new.
But there are those, you,
Who pick,
Who cannot wait
For healing.
You want it on your time
And you chisel away
At any reminder of past injuries,
Moving on
With only pale hollows
To remind you of where you have been.

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