Mom always told me not to pick my scabs. I never listened: faint, predictable pain was almost pleasure, was far better than feeling nothing.
I miss the coppery taste and gummy mouthfeel of scab chunks peeled from my knees and elbows, miss watching my blood ooze from carefully preserved wounds, mix with summer sweat, and wind down my limbs in quick red rivers. I thought it made me look tough.
I miss wounds small enough for bandaids. Small wounds that gifted scars — something to be proud of, something to talk about.
Nothing at all like marks left on the inside.
I wrote this working with the prompts in Jennifer Givhan’s book Regenerate: Prompts to Unlock Transformation
This story first appeared in The Drabble on 11/22/22.
Jim’s Taco Fund (trying not to be a starving artist)
If you’ve ever tossed some coins to a subway saxophonist or a juggler working a stoplight, please consider sending a few bucks my way — $5 covers a day’s worth of tacos. Or, for $3, buy me a coffee!