Fingers and nails, feeling the sides of a scab in idle pleasure -- something about the hardness roughness that is your own and yet not your own; that edge that your fingernail digs into, the skin peeping from under is smooth and thin, ripples like a plastic sheet as you test its tenacity.
Your fingers explore. The scab threatens to tear the new skin along with it if you insist.
But no, you think. You think if you do it slowly, you could just pull the dry ugly pad off. The wound bleeds again. A new scab will form and this time, it will leave a scar.
(Such is the result of idle fingers...)
dsnake1
such is the result of itchy fingers, haha! liz, another very human poem from you, can really relate to that, always wanting to meddle with a scab.