Scabs
The searing of bullets
leaving
deep bloody wounds,
a clean gash of a switchblade
made
with malice and hate.
An instant of destruction
has
a before and after,
each
passing second of an aftermath
is always now … and now … and now.
The more now’s we have
after
hurt has been felt,
we come to believe that
we’re
on the mend or back to now.
A scab on the flesh
protects
Life as it heals
and itches—we find our impulse
to
worry and scratch and pick.
We create a continuous sore
and
interrupt Life’s bandage:
So ugly, yet vital to make
us
anew, or sane or whole.
The realization we must not give into our
urge, and give Life a
change to mend our
torn flesh or broken hearts or
shattered
dreams.
But once we trust and cherish our scabs,
and
learn to love their much-earned place.
To feel pain and hurt and fear subside,
we
realize that we reached the other side…
…by letting go of our need to pick….our scabs.
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