The Itch of Progress

The scab on my forearm is a dark, tectonic plate

shifting over a sea of new and tender pink.

It’s the kind of discomfort I’ve learned to hate,

a frantic, buzzing signal that won't let me think.

My fingernails hover over the jagged, drying edge,

wanting to tear the progress back to the raw and red.

It’s a nervous habit, a broken, desperate pledge

to keep the pain alive instead of putting it to bed.

Healing is a nuisance, a tight and pulling chore

that demands I stay still while the tissue learns to knit.

I’d almost rather have the sharp heat of the wound once more

than this slow, crawling hunger to just be done with it.