picking at my wounds
Written by Rosemary Ché
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What have you done to me?
Every day, I wake up with a wound on my chest. No one can see it nor touch it, but I walk around with it every passing day. My mother always says never to touch a wound focused on healing. But because I am still a curious child at heart, I pick at it anyway. I would believe that if I pick at my wound, it will heal faster. This is never the case. Whenever I pick at my wound, the memories come back and reside next to me: the good memories and the bad ones. When I pick on my flesh longer than I should, the bad memories pierce through my damaged skin and I am left bleeding a trail of trauma.
The biological process of healing is slow in nature. I defy said nature by picking at myself, hurting myself, just to go back to my past for seconds at a time. But I am human. To me, part of being human is holding on to the past I yearn to go back to. Going back in time to relive joy and partnership seems lovely in theory, but the blood continues to trail down my chest and slither down my body.
Soon, my wound will scar. And I will have to carry it on my chest every single day. But I am not looking into covering it. The scar will become visible for everyone to view. Your imprint will always and forever be on my chest, but you cannot hurt me anymore.
