When I was a little girl I picked at my scabs.
I was obsessed with watching the wounds close after each time I'd pick at it scab. It was watching time do it's thing: heal.
I never quite understood how it even worked or what my skin was even doing.
Now I know that scabs are just clusters of skin cells and dry blood that patch up the wound, and soon it'll be nothing but a small mark on my knee cap.

That's exactly what I did after you left.
I kept picking at the pieces of me that you left, untouched
and I ripped them apart and picked at parts of me to try and find answers
I kept coming back to see if maybe this time things would change or if those parts of me would get smaller of heal faster
but they never did.

My dad would watch me on the front steps of his house pick at my scabs and say
I was better off if I'd kick the habit.
Maybe I finally will.