You know, Little Katie likes to pick at her scabs. Sometimes it takes all my energy to keep her from opening old wounds.
Pick it.
No.
Why?
Because you will bleed and you will hurt longer.
Instead of repeating the conversation a thousand times, I change the subject. Make her use her words instead of her fingernails.
Well, I have my words. I've been trained to break them apart and put them back together again. It's my source of endless amusement. Sometimes, even other people get the joke.
But like Little Katie and her sharp fingernails, my sharp words can get too pointed. They sometimes jab too far. They sometimes grow so complex that they lose their edge. They sometimes get trapped and run in circles in my head. And sometimes they scrape my skin, and hit the nerves, which seem to be rising closer to the surface. And scabs split open; I am draining. I am drained. Sometimes it flows too fast and the blood doesn't clot. And I worry that I've stained something, someone. Soiled forever.
I don't like this extended metaphor--my stomach is turning. I am not near this morbid. Will someone please change the subject?