I have this wound I can't quit picking at. I threw a band-aid on it months ago, thinking maybe if I just left it alone, it might go away. But a couple weeks ago, I got an itch - I couldn't help myself, I had to peel back the bandage and take a look. It was still there, a little scabbed over, but no smaller than before and definitely not going anywhere. It got bumped and prodded and now it's starting to ooze a little. I can feel it start to fester, and it hurts a bit, but it's a sweet pain that's perversely addictive, the kind that reminds you that you're alive. And now all I want to do is rip that scab off and let it bleed all over the place, screaming for recognition, validation, retribution. It's all I can think about. I sit with my hand poised at the edge of this wound, contemplating, taunting, threatening to act, then deciding against it, back and forth along the edge, again and again. I keep thinking the only way I can heal the wound is to violently reexpose it, so it's fresh and raw again, impossible to ignore. I don't trust another balm to heal it, as the very thing that caused it was the cure to another, deeper wound - a salve that turned out to be an insidious poison, seeping in, infecting me, filling me with this slow, burning sickness that sits under my skin, ready to erupt. And so now...now I have this wound that I can't quit picking at.