Healing. Sometimes when dramas and other people’s lost possession distract from tending the broken parts, things change. You, check, fleeting to find that new skin is fresh and pinkly smooth. Fine, that’s that, you say. And go about infatuations and reactions, habits clunking into place – a solid construction. Moving forward. But under the carapace something is rotten – stinking, vile and sore. Easy to ignore that little needleprod gasp when you poke – until it’s too late. Only the slightest thing, a nick, a knock, and there’s a rupture. Unaddressed, red-hot and tenacious, the mess is unspeakable, but speak you must.
