I pick the same scab every day.
At this rate, it will never heal.
I’m not speaking metaphorically—though the metaphor still applies—I have a scratch on my back above my right shoulder blade, and somehow, every day, I manage to absentmindedly scratch it (it itches!) and reopen it.
Today, my blood looked neon.
I pressed a paper towel against it to keep any droplets from getting on my shirt and when I pulled it away, was surprised at how bright, vibrant, the red was. It didn’t always look like that, did it?
In moments, it had dried to that more familiar, dull, burnt-orange red. I crumpled the towel and threw it in the trash because it looked gross. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that neon color.
Something in me was bright, once.
