Picking at Scabs - Apr 9

—it’s the black boil on bursting, boiling ribs— on my midleft chest, brewing bungled churns, [tighteningmybreath], again, again, it yearns, it begs*, “just one (just two) more (well-earned) rub(s)!” —giving in, it’s just picking at the scabs— first brief relief( ):the itch at once returns as soon’s the finger’s left the welt; it burns and gnaws more hotly—awful pangs, sore jabs! now, Doctor says I’d best not touch it if I’d like to heal—“lucky to leave just a scar”— only, I hate the texture of the crust… why’s my mind got to be so god,damned,stiff? though abstinence feels so blunt, so bizarre, I’d like to heal, I give his word my trust.