I look at my wound
A fleshy calaca
Speckled with pink and red dots where hair follicles
Once existed.
It is my cortada with its rosada edges
an umbra of swollenness.
I look at my wound
Slimy como un gargajo
Me llena de asco
But why does my mouth water when I look at it?
I focus on the pain
Feel it throb up and down my arm
Makes my nails tingle
I feel the throb until my clit tingles.
I ignore my cut for days
Leave it exposed, victim to the elements
Vulnerable to infection.
“Huh I should put something on it. Some ointment or something.”
I research the web under branding and in the process
Learn about the highly infectious nature of burns.
One degree more and I could’ve damaged the nerve endings.
I cover my wound with a Band Aid
To silence the pain.
My thoughts get the best of me
I get chilled with loneliness, paralyzed with irrational fears
My thoughts run wild
ever present
bare
like bones
I reach for the Band Aid
And as I pull it off the stinging mixes in with another type of pain
The pulling of tiny hairs from their root “sssss, uh.”
Pain.
Pains
make me who I am, makes us who we are
Our bodies are screaming with pain
Physical, mental and emotional
Pain brings us together
It repels us
“Get away! You pained me.”
“get away you’re damaged goods.
Look at my wounds.
“Cover that shit up.”
I struggle not to be hostage to my pain
But it is my pain
Fuck you for giving it to me
Fuck you for not knowing it.
“Can you see my wound, it’s only residue?”
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