By Jim Latham
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 write because talking to myself out loud is frowned upon.” – the writer