ouch

 I keep bleeding.

every time my finger bends, I find a new cut. flesh is sliced every time I turn a page, or if a knife nicks my knuckle. blood stains my pillowcase. 

It's not that I'm afraid of it--the red, pinkish stains it leaves behind, or the hot pools leftover by my menstrual cycles. I'm not afraid of red blood cells or white blood cells or circulation or purple veins. I'm afraid of what it signifies; I'm terrified of pain. 

I'm worried that if I read more books, the stinging will continue, or worse, increase. How can I keep going when all I can predict is the pain? I cringe at any mention of soreness, or the sharp pains someone might feel upon injury. I'm wary of others in pain; I can't be around them too long, because it might be catching. 

The worst thing about pain is that you can't see it. My face might contort into a ball of frustration, and I might scream "damn" and "shit" and all kind of curse words at the sky, but you can never really see it. Something in us expects pain; anticipates it, knows somehow when someone else might cause us pain. We have a sense of when it might slide its way into us, but maybe that's the worst part. Some people say pain is blinding--others say you get used to it. 

The bruises on my knees are almost gone. It's strange to me, that some pain leaves no scars. At least none that are visible. Some pain is so deep, we might hold onto it like a scar, might expect that it's part of us in some way, that the skin formed around our cuts is too precious to forget about. Maybe that's what I'm doing; maybe I'm holding on to the pain because it's all I have left from what was.