Scab

I spy another one.
Always another one -
waiting
in the corner of my mind’s eye.

Still so sensitive to touch,
red-raw, resilient.
A relic and reminder.

A small but stubborn injury,
never healed.
A blemish from years since –
yet fresh as yesterday or today.

A long memory can be a curse.
And despite the decades,
I remember every detail
of this scab’s birth.

Here they all come now,
dervish-dancing dizzily into view:
The why.
The when.
The who…

…Whatever!

How any of this helps me now
I do not know.

Temptation follows:
should I scratch at it?
Pick at it?
Rip it off?
Tear it away,
just to see what lies beneath
- all over again?

I could dig deep inside.
Open it wide.
Let it bleed itself dry.
I could make a wound within a wound
and bring myself to tears
to once more feel the undiminished hurt right…here!

I could toy with it.
Tease it.
Dirty it.
Infect it.
Regret it
and feel sick and sorry
as once more I tell myself the story
of how this scab came to be.

But there’s nothing new to see here.
I have nothing more to gain
from revisiting the source
of this rediscovered pain.

Maybe this time, then,
I could love myself enough
- or like myself enough, at least -
to just
leave
it
be.

I could surprise myself
and save myself.

I could accept it;
salve it;
heal it;
resolve it.

I could put an end
to this past imperfection,
now so pointless.

I could finally see scab
become scar
become protecting skin again.

The Last of England

Autumn Evening, Hull ‘90