Scabs - Chris Coombs I sit here kneading the scab on my thumb. Exploring rough and ready contours and jagged boundary lines, while I try to reconcile and heal the fact the words won't write themselves. Kneading the scab enjoying it's beguilling itch Needing but not wanting, while I give meaning to our conversation. Mutual respect through mutual terror, recognising our own madness, accepting to each other. No. Reaffirming. Sanity by the long road, through mirrors. Like the scab best left alone to heal, we tore at ours. Ecstatic annihilation to find the same wavelength. And as we bled to each other I knew that long after the scab I'll always bear a scar.