“I used to be interesting.” I say getting closer to the scab on his leg. “I used to take better pictures and be okay when I didn’t sleep.” He’s trying to pull away.
“Why do you have to be so creepy?” He says pushing my fingers away from the dried flaky blood.
“It’s fascinating. The way it’s formed it looks like an intricate lace pattern or snowflake.” I’m poking at it again.
“You’re going to open it up and it’s almost healed.”
These are the conversations that go on in my head. Tiny moments sitting on couches with imaginary people. I’m not sure “he” has a face, but I know that scab. I remember that scab on a former lover. I remember doing the same exact thing and him saying all the same things. It’s just now I’m remembering it on someone new. It’s the obsession with peeling off the dead skin and blood. You have to do it with such precision that you don’t damage that new delicate layer of pink skin covering the wound. You have to do it just right, just so, lifting and shifting until your delicate doily of dried blood pops off into the napkin.
A tiny dot passes over the sun. My heart breaks.
1.) Confession - When I spoke to someone I once cared deeply for I felt nothing
2.) Oracle - I lost his necklace, freaked out, and found it. I actually did care.friends
3.) Body - Took a walk, had delicious iced coffee
4.) Sacrifice - Sleep
5.) Relinquish - Anger
6.) Inspiration - Grainy black and white photos
7.) Structure - Staying home and working