The Life of a Keloid
2016: I am born. I peer out of a tiny hole that has been made by the doctor. I am etched in blood and pus. Before I can adjust to my surroundings, a Band-Aid covers my world in black
2017: My network has expanded. I am using collagen to rebuild, but I am not complete. Fingernails drive into me daily. They are always itching me, but I am the eternal itch that can’t be satisfied.
2018: They are always looking at me so despondently. What did I do to you? I had to act to heal the wound. You hit me with product after product to shrink me, to destroy me. I can take many beatings. I am just like you.
2019: You live a filthy life. Garbage piles in spires on your desk—a holy cathedral of gluttony. I can tell you’re in so much pain. You’ve been scratching me a lot more recently. Why won’t you go to the doctor if you’re so concerned? Would you allow me to grow this way? Oh, those tired eyes, the way the cursor flashes on the screen with its lethargic morse code. Stop while you’ve still got time. Stop while I still pity you.
2020: They hit me with an injection. Kenalog. The effects aren’t immediate, but the day after, I feel my tendrils lessen. They are happy. I know it. I know it all too well because they’ve found a way to destroy me after all. They keep hitting me with this needle, but eventually I find a way to resist. A huge cyst takes my place—a new organism? He is cut into and drained. More Kenalog. I think there is enough Kenalog. They are restless all night. They scratch me with such intense fury. Such hate and despair. The doctor is just doing his best, alright?
2021: You find love. You find it with such ease. She must be the perfect partner if she accepts you with this hideous affront to the eyes. I am flattened but not gone. When your two bodies touch, I am there. When she plays with your chest, I am there. Every waking moment you must accept that we are one. You botch it though. You can’t accept that anyone could love you looking the way that you do. I am the gargoyle always watching the tower.
2022: What has happened to you? You don’t even acknowledge me anymore. It’s like we broke up too. I know it isn’t because you’ve gotten more confident. You are as rattled as ever. You don’t sleep with a shirt on at night anymore because the fabric has become too restrictive. I think you believe that one day I will peel from your skin and become some twisted bantam waiting each morning for you to wake up. I hope we never reach that point. I like your body very much.
2023: I’ve been communicating with the other keloids on your body—the back, the neck, and even the butt. We are coordinating efforts to grow and expand our colonies. I hope this is okay. I mean, you don’t give a shit about your body, do you? Let us do the driving around here, passenger princess.
2024: One day your body will be consumed by keloids. That is my final goal. I want nothing more than to see you completely helpless in my grasp. Your new girlfriend can’t help you. She can only watch as the last bit of who she knew to be Riley becomes an unrecognizable sculpture of our doing.
2025: It’s coming. Just you wait.