At first a stab --
and then months of leaving the dagger in my skin, because I was afraid of the gaping tear it would leave behind,
it festered and turned purple (they told me I had to take it out)
So I did,
and there was a stream of blood that I used to think wouldn't stop flowing (I thought I'd die of shock), but then my body said Okay Alright, This Needs To Stop,
and the blood congealed--
but this was my last connection to the dagger, to the hand that held it,
I couldn't let it disappear,
I'd fall into trances in which my overgrown fingernails would claw at the wounded site,
just to feel the rush of blood again (but it wasn't quite right this time)
But no matter how much I intervened on the healing process, my body was smarter, had more authority over me.
Soon the wound became untouchable,
nothing but an angry line of scar tissue that I could no longer sabotage.
My skin is whole again, the breeze no longer stings, water no longer burns like acid.
(But sometimes the area aches, pulsates with something I cannot determine to be real or imaginary)
Sometimes  my throat tightens because I think the wound has opened again, my stomach churns at the notion of healing again (or worse- never healing at all)
But then I remember that the smell of my own blood is unfamiliar, and the breeze doesn't sting anymore, and water doesn't burn like acid.