You revisit scars.
Three am, the very air you breathe heavy with the layers of thoughts you need to traverse before sleep finally catches up. Your foot stumbling as you trudge up the steep slope of insomnia.

Street lamps, you are walking at a brisk pace- carrying out an animated discussion with the wind, brushing aside thoughts of souls you’ve known who come to rest in these alleys. These are homes, testimonies of a past, of a scar. Then you’re arrested, a foot faltering on a stone, just for an instant you see the ghost of a man you killed with your bare hands. The face has aged, but the eyes still the same; and in barely half a second the abyss opens up underfoot.

At night you toss and turn, drowning in the whizz of an air conditioner that frosts the tips of your soul. You explore the frozen ridges of your heart, wonder at how cold you must be inside, wonder at the ice pumping in your system feigning to be blood.

You remember the scar, a horrid angry eye on his wrist that you examined sitting on a cemented bench, the back of your thighs burning from the heat swallowed by the seat. Absently you wonder if it had absorbed your feelings like it absorbs the sunlight.  You remember the horror as you held his bony wrist, and the brute force you had used to make yourself feel the guilt you knew he wanted you to feel.
Yet the tears refused to come, all you felt was pity, bile rising up at how weak he must be. Your voice, faltering slightly as you whisper an apology, wishing desperately for the tears to come, fortify your act of contrition.

You had been a surprisingly good actor, he brought that out in you every time you promised him a forever, or apologised for a mistake he made. 

Your eyes are still wide open, involuntarily you are running your fingers up the smooth wrist, feeling the skin you couldn’t bear let anyone touch.
You wonder if he is lying in bed too, feeling the ridge on his skin and remembering how you had looked today. Or had his scar faded just like the memory of it?

You force your eyelids shut, a screen for your movie to be played. Yet it only has just one frame, of a face covered in shadows of despair, the striking signs of lovesickness. But just like that day, the frosted tips of your heart barely sweat, all you feel is pity, not an ounce of love.

In response to daily blog post : scars


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