I Hate Scabs ✄

May 1st, 2026

 

This habit has stayed with me for many years, sometimes I think it’s the only thing I truly know about me… As if picking will help me. When will I stop bleeding?

I wish skin could heal smoothly, that everything inside me isn’t at risk of being contaminated. To restore the damage without the temptation of picking. The scratchy patches on my skin are so easy to tear, the pain doesn’t outweigh my satisfaction. There is always a chance of infection at an open wound, yet after so many years I am still here. I still feel as though I am corrupted in a way, that despite not showing any physical signs of disease there is something inside changing me. It’s clinging to my bloodstream and soiling my soul. As if it wishes to trap me, a sickness traveling through my body where no prescription has been effective.

I’ve been given drugs before, the ones to make you “stop it”, but I can’t seem to listen. I still take the pills, trying to believe that maybe one day they would work. I guess they do help a little, maybe I’m a little less sad with a dose. It’s not enough though, there is a greed for a sense of normalcy. Balance is too difficult to manage, as if I am split in two and we both enjoy the seesaw, where one fragment is excited about going higher and the counterpart can barely push off the ground. Yet together, they must continue to play the game. Constantly fighting with yourself is exhausting, waking up feeling depleted. When you’re at the point of not being able to feel rested, your instincts will betray your best wishes.

I want to embrace change and have my moment of metamorphosis. Truly, I do. The other parts of me are afraid – we don’t know who we are now, so who will we become next? It’s complicated to wish for change the second you start to recognize yourself. Perhaps I have a secret longing to remain a mystery to myself… Honestly, I am unsure. When my features start to settle in, when I can identify something more unique to me, I become a bit flustered. Uncomfortable with the idea of being known, and scared by the thought of perception. So again, I leave my skin. Shedding all forms of familiarity I had, creating a person who hopefully avoids the fate of becoming tainted.

Settling into new skin, it becomes hard and uneven. I suppose the process of change is supposed to be challenging. Yet time and time again, I give in. Caving to the desire to tear myself apart, conceding to the bad blood. Ripping apart my flesh, old and new alike in attempts to feel more together. This cycle of harm has me trapped, awareness is not much of an opponent when it comes to security. The feeling of my blood on my hands has become comforting, red stained knuckles reminding me of who I am. At the end of the day, when all my scabs are raw, I am still me.