I have this gruesome habit of picking at my bruises. Ever since childhood, I have been digging at my scabs until they're bloody. I can't remember a time when my fingers didn't have any lacerations on them. I should probably look into excoriation disorder, but that's for another time. Nothing too worrisome, it isn't as gory as it sounds. And no, I'm not a masochist, just healthily deranged.
The disturbing part comes now. I'm beginning to realize that this pattern isn't limited to physical lesions. Over the years, on different occasions, I've gone back to old wounds, and reopened them, creating a grisly mess I can't uplift myself from. All that agony, stemming from failure, loss, heartbreak - fought through for a while only to be revisited in the quiet of the night.
Letting go has never been my strong suit, perhaps because I'd never had to exercise it for the longest time in my life. By the time I did, I was spoilt beyond repair. I didn't understand the concept of having something that wasn't mine to keep forever. And so, here we are. In the middle of the night. Thinking about the what-ifs because I'm apparently constitutionally incapable of knowing when to stop.
Anyway, tonight, I don't much care for the psychoanalysis of humanity and their inexplicable urge to cling to the very anguish that nearly destroys them. All I'm looking for is sleep. It's been months now. I used to love going to bed. A little too much, as some people would argue. Now, I dread turning in for the night, for fear of deep diving into something I'd rather keep at bay. I've just about had my fill of restless tossing and turning. Wouldn't mind that miracle you owe me, Universe. Early gift, maybe?