I am running my finger on the edges of a wound
That would heal if I only stopped picking
but it gives me something to do with my hands;
the busy countenance of an unsettled mind.
I peel another strip of skin back, revealing
More of the wound than I’d seen before
It is wrinkled pink and tender at the center
It is painful to the touch
I spread salve on the worst of it
Hoping to heal it,
(or at least to soften its edges)
all to speed up the process.
But healing takes an enormous amount of time, and
it is all but invisible to the natural eye–
Insomuch as every act of gradual change
Cannot be perceived, only felt
Plate tectonics in the ocean
Shifting subtly, moving continents
Fusions of tissue, old and new,
All part of the living thing–
once that piece of me was broken
and now, it is not.
It is healed.
*
The day you came to my house, I was
already wounded, rough-edged, raw,
tender at the center, healing;
It hurt when you tried to touch me.
I still don’t know what you wanted,
Only that I could not give it–
At least, not how you wanted it to be.
And after you left I raged,
Replaying the scene to burn the blocking into my brain
running lines for words I can never repeat.
Picking at the skin until it bled,
I dragged my ruined heart through the glass of broken frames
holding photographic memories of you and me.
And then, horrified by the gape of the wound,
I tried to seal it up, hoped to speed up its healing.
I said it was fine, even
apologized for what I said
when I was wounded,
expecting my sacrifice to fix everything.
But healing takes an enormous amount of time, and
it’s all but imperceptible while it’s happening.
Still, we spread salve on the living thing
Hoping, hoping, hoping
*
It sounds like a lie to
say “healing takes time”
when in reality
you have to
give it.
I hope you enjoyed this writing, which is really a return to my first love: poetry was my gateway into the world of words as a kid, and it feels really great to reconnect with that piece of myself.
Thanks for reading.