scars

when i was a kid my older brothers were both big fans of virginia cavaliers basketball. they loved it so much they decided to cut and bend a metal hanger into the shape of the v, then heat it up over the stove until it was visibly ret hot and press it into the sides of their arms. i remember watching them with a mixture of awe and confusion filling my eyes as they yelled out and pulled the oven mitt away and the pieces of hanger stayed stuck to the melted skin underneath.

in the days that followed, the wounds scabbed over. but my oldest brother insisted it wasn't good enough yet. he carefully picked the scab off so that the wound re-opened and would need to scab over again. once it did, he picked it right off. the purpose was to increase the size and depth of the scar. and to this day, he carries a broad v-shaped scar on his shoulder and he never forgets where it came from.



(i never understood the driving force behind this action until now. it's been said, perhaps too many times, that time heals all wounds. but what happens when you don't want to move on? what happens when you don't want to heal? because to heal means to let go of something you desperately hold on to in your heart. i don't want my wound to scab. i want to pick the scabs. i don't want to let go.)