rummaging

It grew larger over time, like a ripe piece of fruit worn out in the sun. Atop my left thigh, it sat in plain view each morning, as I stripped to begin the day and again each night, as I laid my body down, nude, waiting for it to knuckle under its own rest. I got the scar after years of wear and tear – constantly undoing the same spot over and over again, as if consciously making something imperfect would rid my mind of the feeling that anything had to be perfect ever again. Sometimes I’d try to squeeze something out of it, garner its juice and drink it sweetly. But perhaps the fruit was always dry. 

My fingers formed circles round and round the spot with a particular verve that night. It needed affection, something warm, which you had failed to give. You seemed to caress everything else, leaving just that one spot untouched. Maybe you were scared, feared what a roaming hand might do, might open up. Maybe you were uncomfortable with the thought of loving something out of place.

My hand made revolutions like a windy September morning’s weather vane. 

I went below the surface; instead of grazing, I went deeper. My mother always told me I had nice nails, good for show, good for opening unruly things. It started out with a scratch, light like a paper cut. My skin was getting warm, exuding the effort I was making into learning more about my permanent stain. My nails drove deeper into my flesh, paper cuts compounding each other, small but mighty movements into myself. Strangely, there was little blood – it seemed I wasn’t reaching into my blood vessels, I wasn’t exploring a space that wasn’t meant to be torn apart. It was as if the scar had been waiting for me to open its walls.

I wiggled my fingers into the two-inch opening. I pulled out the ring I had lost in the tenth grade. I had been nervously twisting it up and down my index finger all day, but as I walked home down 82nd street, I lost control. The silver band slipped between my fingertips and fell into the subway grate, the Red Line I think. And then I pulled out the Chapstick I lent to Brian Mitts in the fourth grade because I thought a kiss could be transferred. I thought if the imprint of my lips met his, it would be love. He never gave it back so perhaps he too thought it love. 

I opened myself more. My hand was almost fully submerged inside. 

I pulled at the sweatshirt I left on a train to Paris, the one with broken holes in the sleeves for thumbs, so I could be locked in its warmth. I’ve been cold ever since. 

I feared if I kept digging, I would find everything I had ever lost. I feared memories would materialize in front me, lovers would fill my room with their half-formed apologies, the past dripping down my leg, entangling itself in between my toes. 

I kept going. To be drenched with the past was insignificant if the thing I needed lay twisted somewhere within. 

My fingers scrambled frantically; I felt as if there were an hourglass spinning inside my own body.

My leg lay gaping, but I wasn’t there.