This week, my thumb finally healed.
Three weeks ago I sliced it against the jagged edge of a metal can, trying to cook dinner.
For two hours it bled uncontrollably onto a Band-Aid, distracting me from everyday activities.
I wore the Band-Aid consistently for the next two weeks and it consistently got in my way.
I’d try to wash my hair in the shower and I’d feel it. I thought about it every time I picked up my pen. It prevented me from texting with both hands, decreasing my communication.
It was in the back of my mind for three weeks, disturbing me.
Routinely, I woke up each morning and changed the Band-Aid, cleaning the wound in the process.
Eventually, one day I woke up and it didn’t hurt anymore. The skin grew over the cut, the blood had dried and all that remained was a scar – a subtle reminder to be more careful.
Three weeks ago, I broke my own heart.
I sliced it with the sharp edge of my words.
For two hours it bled uncontrollably, distracting me from everyday activities.
Eventually one day I woke up and it didn’t hurt anymore. All that remained was a metaphorical scar – a subtle reminder to be more careful.