I’m an expert when it comes to scabs.
Whenever one forms on the surface of my variantly marked brown skin, I analyze its shape,
size
texture
and hue
I get to know them intimately
and accept them as they make their home on my epidermis.
But the wounds you created were far more complex than any I’d ever had before.
On my arms and in my heart you left demoralizing gashes
that were healed by your gentle touch turned
sharp, painful graze,
I watched as your painted fingernails dug into me
and swiftly peeled away my only defense
from you
over
and over again
without saying a word.
I cried for hours as I let myself bleed out your
gentle caresses and menacing lies,
your empty promises, and your ever-present, glistening smile.
My wounds from you are complicated.
They made me forget what it looked like to have a smooth layer of skin,
reinterpret what it felt like to trust in others,
and understand what it felt like to be enveloped in the most addictive form of love.
I never formed a scab
from the wounds you left in me
until the day that you left.
And that was the day that my body finally started to relearn
how to heal itself.
