Ouch ouch ouch. Yes. Like an old wound. Nothing but a scab being picked picked picked at. What is this laceration? What chance of healing? What festers so deeply underneath and how resiliently has it tunneled through me? Gauze falls off and washes away. New patches. New tape. Out of sight. Never out of mind. Scratch scratch scratch. How it fills with vinegar and salt, mingling with despair. It erupts, needing a washing. A cleansing. A diagnosis, please? What are you made of? Are you of the same substance from which I hail? Are we a disease? A parasite? Relegated to capacity of battle scars that wear on the soul. Like an anvil on a soon to splinter chest. The distance each splinter might reach upon release. Ribs, like a cavern, ready to cave in. Would the wall around the heart still stand impenetrable? Could Water truly break through and smooth out these old stones? Will the boulder disintegrate over time and the Spirit emerge free, from within this carcass of a form?