Pubs and Scabs

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I pick at scabs just as I picks at my heart's scabs.

Submitted: February 19, 2015

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Submitted: February 19, 2015

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Scabs Overlooked, passed over with disgust and mild intrigue. I can't run my fingers over it without the urge to flick up the scab's edge. I know the flesh beneath it is still raw, because blood slips out and runs down my skin. It is all part of the fascination. Just like I am doing now, sitting in a pub have a few drinks. My heart has a few fresh scabs. Instead of letting them heal, I pick at them. I know I will bleed, but still, my thoughts run over and around my wounds. So I order another drink or more. While my mind picks at my heart, I drink one more after another. I nurse the last few drinks while I press back into place the scabs I picked. I am good at self medicating, as long as I keep practicing at picking and healing. When will I heal? When will my heart heal?


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