Me, picking at my wound: ow
Wound: what did you think would happen?
Me: I don't know. I didn't know. I wanted to find out.
Wound: well, this is what happens. You hurt and my work is done a little less.
Wound: no, not-bleeding. You seem to misunderstand. I am not the violence. The violence is no longer in the body. My job is to be a wound - so that you won't bleed out on me - and then a scar, so that you can go on with your doing. I am not smooth skin, sure, but I am not the violence.
Me, suspicious: but you come from the violence. I remember. Perhaps if I dig in a little I will find the thing, the secret thing to pull out to heal all at once and to not even have the memory of violence, which is what you are.
Wound: what you'll find inside is just tired old flesh. There is nothing here but you. Even I is you. That's why you are the one hurt when you pick at my scabs. I am not telling you anything you do not know.
Me: but the knowing doesn't help.
Me: I am still unhappy with having a wound as opposed to not having a wound, even though I know that isn't the choice in front of me.
Wound: yes. You will just have to wait.
Wound: maybe, if I am a wound that heals all the way. I do not know. Perhaps you have to wait for my work to be as done as it gets and for the itch to stop. The itch, at the very least, will subside with time.
Me: that sucks but, okay.
Me, picking at my wound: ow
Wound: what did you think would happen?