The Healing Itch

The cut on my hand was healing fine,

a thin line of pink beneath my skin,

the scab was forming, the pain did decline,

and I thought that I could finally begin

to forget about it, to stop my thinking,

to move on from what I'd done.

But then the itch started sinking

into my hand, and I couldn't run

from it anymore. I scratched and scratched.

Just a little, just to ease

the feeling. But the scab detached,

came open, and the blood came to seize

the moment, and the healing

came undone, the process starting over,

and I sat there, my hands reeling,

unable to stop, unable to recover.

The itch was back, more fierce than before,

the wound was fresh and raw,

and I kept scratching at the sore,

kept tearing at it, breaking the law.

My fingers wouldn't obey me.

The scab was forming again,

and I knew that it would betray me,

that I'd be scratching at it again,

and again, the itch returning

to haunt me, the wound never quite

healing, never quite learning

to stop, to close, to set things right.