They say that time heals all wounds. That what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But they don’t know about those slow suppurating wounds, the ones that fester under the surface, the ones that you peel back the skin on to keep alive. They don’t know the patient perfection of digging underneath a scab, the slow ooze of fresh crimson. The pleasure of pressing firmly on the purple-blue bruise, of keeping the ache present after its cause has left.
Time passes and it takes more and more effort, dredging up the pain, digging, pressing, peeling. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps we heal in spite of our own best efforts. But some pains are too exquisite to let go.