Some people heal really well. The cut will be gruesome and scabby for a brief bit. Then the extra will fall away, and the skin underneath will be perfect and glowing and ready to try again. The limb that bore the wound will be spry and flexible; it will move, unmarred, through each task as though nothing had ever, at any point in time, pinched its freedom and muffled its range.
I do not heal well. I am, worse, easily wounded; my skin is fragile and thin. It tears from an errant fingernail and bleeds a little, too. I sport a cat scratch across my forearm from two months ago. If my skin has managed not to break, my body will rebuff its temerity with colorful bruises epic in size. My muscles will readily strike, leaving me gasping for release and the slightest bit of movement.
And I wait, my prison the only home I have ever known, for the healing to be finished, for my skin to be whole, for my body to move freely. I watch for the newness and the smoothness, and am greeted by white tight scars and unready scabs and snide bruises that resent my impatience. I sit still and I am careful and I think that one day I won’t even remember waiting for this wound to wander.
And as I wait, I see my skin, my streaked and callused and broken skin. And I remember the hits that caused each wound and the eagerness that rose before the cut. I feel the brilliance of abandon before the blood, and the fierce deliberation before the bruise. I can feel each pain like a different hand on my heart, and I cannot make myself regret a single one.