Out damned spot!
Thinking about you is like picking at a scab. You know you ought to leave it alone, let it heal and drop off by itself when it will.
You keep picking at it.
I think of the times your laughter sounded untrue, when you hurt me by comparing, unconscious that you were doing it. I think of the times when it was you all the way.
You keep picking at it, the scab.
Your nail works at the drying edges, trying to help it along to get off your skin. Your nail probes at the flap, seeking to loosen it and lift it, changing attack and angles and trying to find another edge to tackle.
I think of the time we were both devastated, or I thought we were. I was shattered. You said a callous thing. I wept then. More for the stranger that stood in front of me than the terrible loss I realised that was mine alone.
The nail finds a fleshy flap to break loose and the scab lifts. There is a thin trickle of blood from the unhealed flesh. The nail is encrusted with blood too.
I will go wash my hands; I will trim my nails short too. The blood will dry up. There will be another scab. There will be a paler patch of new skin and a scar until that fades into body and past.
There won't be more picking at it, though. I am shut of you.