Marla trips on the patio,
tears her tights,
bloodies her knee.
Within a week the cut
is a thick slab of scab
like knobbled rust.
She picks at its crusty edges,
risks ripping fresh flesh.
I push away her ferreting fingers.
Please stop.
We stare down at a loose flake.
One last bit, she begs.
And I do understand her need to pick,
finish the job,
the frustration of seeing something so frayed
and close to clean.
No.
I won’t watch you hurt yourself.