Scab

It is with little joy I write of this, but in the hope that the writing will eventually act like immunisation and that one day I'll wake up having had my full course of jabs and voila.

I've mentioned before that in my life I've tended to fall for men who - for one reason or another - are unavailable.  There's nothing to recommend it at all.  There's also nothing to do about it but let it pass.  I'm slightly ashamed because I should be well over this by now, but I think time and distance can often refine something so that, not only is it permanently out of reach, but it becomes perfect in absentia. 

So.  I feel stupid (but not contagious, dear Kurt).  I don't want my new life coloured by this habitual thing.  And I pick at the scab all the time.  I don't want this, but I don't want the bland pink healed skin.  I want the scab and to pull at it.  Tearing off the scab is better than healing and that is, frankly, a bit sick.

And I'm a bit sick of that.  Bring me something new and pink, life.  (Shut up at the back).