January 2020
I know I’m not the first
Or the last
To wonder how a wound heals,
To watch a wound
Wolverine heal
In slow motion.
I do know some things, however,
About scars
And guts and staples and hobbling to the shower
Oh so gingerly.
The body keeps score
Is a helpful book because
We think emotions are invisible
And are gone when they leave
When they’re not.
For some of us, though,
The body kept score
In the most visible possible ways.
I’d hoped the tradeoffs-
Invisible for visible-
Would be permanent
But they’re not.
Not all wounds are the same.
Some are stretched tight and stapled shut and forced to heal
On the outside at least
Which works
And is so necessary when
Bursting open would make
An irretrievable mess.
Thank God for staples
And the unsolvable mystery
Of their painless removal.
Some stay open:
Not festering
But pereniumally worrisome.
Open.
Still open?
Yep, still open.
Wounds stay open when they’re at
An unfathomable juncture,
The cusp between new and old,
Extant and freshly relocated.
They stay open
Because you choose to walk
And live
And have your being.
Heal, sweet skin.
You know the sensation will be gone,
But heal.
I remember now how you stayed open.
I wish I could remember how
You healed shut.
It wasn’t up to me.
That’s best
Because you know how compulsively
I pick at scabs.
I never can commit to waiting
Instead I rip the flesh off
And hope to find healing hiding underneath.
It’s not hard to see
The appeal of picking
And ripping
Knowing that someday Still Open
Will suddenly be healed
When I’m terrified that yet again
I’ll lose the sensation
Which
Doesn’t sound like healing–
Just scarring.