Jessy Assy

It does not begin

with a needle and a thread

you carefully

work your fingers

around

to suture that

gaping wound

up.

 

It is an out-of-body experience

of you,

watching yourself,

staring at the cut

absolutely fascinated:

by the colors,

ruggedness,

and depth of it all

as you playfully move

the needle over it

equally fascinated by how

unnecessary

it would be to just

"stitch it shut"

into a polite scar

you wouldn’t have to

explain to others

when they

undoubtedly

spot it.

 

It is an other-wordly

sublime immersion

into the

cosmos

as the initial cause

of the injury

becomes as

irrelevant

as a bright job offer that

expires

almost as rapidly

as it once

surfaced.

 

It is laughing at the

visibility

of it all

knowing it’s become akin to

a badge of honor –

the literal

embodiment of

“tear and wear”

you no longer

feel compelled

to conceal.

 

It is an upward curving

of the lips,

brought on by thoughts

of calm

indifference

that place you

in a completely different region,

in a completely different time zone,

very deservedly

unconcerned

with the genesis

and aftermath

of said wound.

 

It is you merrily musing:

“bring on the salt”

“pour on the alcohol”

“and rub it all in --

again,

and again,

and again,

till you stop

only once

you’ve lost

all sensation

trying to make

me sense something

that is simply

no longer there”

 

After all,

healing is realizing

your gaping wound is

still very much

noticeable,

and still very much

irreversibly

deformed.

But it is all yours.

And it burns no more.