I had a thing with a guy who pealed off his scabs and handed them to people

You know the scab you get from sliding across the asphalt? Not the road-rash skid kind, but the football in the cul-de-sac kind. When you leave all the skin on your knee on the pavement. The scab that is the size of a silver dollar - maroon and plastic - and at least a quarter of an inch thick.
You know the pain you feel when a scab that size is hit? It's almost as bad has having the bike-wreck all over again. The pain is worse than a bruise, because the dullness of the scab itself presses - like a fingernail - into the wound, causing it to seep blood from its edges.
It's been years since I had a scab like that.
But I remember the pain.
The tenderness.
But only the original scab was the big one that hurt so much. If you were tough, and could peel it off, then a smaller one would grow in its place. One that didn't hurt so much. Didn't press so hard. Smaller and smaller until your soft skin enclosed around the wound to only leave a painless, off-color scar to entomb the whole messy business, never to be thought of again.

He presses on the scab a lot,
and he's the asphalt where I left my skin,
and when he presses and it bleeds,
sometimes the blood sounds like,
"I wish you were the only man I knew."
Fuck. Bleeding is so messy!
I wanted to tell him I have merely told a good story, but that my imagination is the only thing enjoying it, and that I don't care to get to know any of these men I could meet in this blasted city because every one of them slaps me where I've been scraped and presses the scab into the disgusting wound underneath, causing it to seep blood from its edges as a reminder that it might look dead but its oh, so alive deep down, and tender.

He congratulated me, as though I had reported that my car had achieved maximum mileage.
He offered his approval, even in light of the new fella not liking Wes Anderson.
He committed to spending sixteen hours on the highway over Christmas break to spend time with me.
When he loves me well he presses on the scab, too.
This one isn't getting smaller.
No sign of healing.
I'll stop listening to the Bouncing Souls later.