Scars and scabs and scars

Time does not heal old wounds. Time only reopens them. You are left with scars, scabs, scars that turn to scabs that turn to scars that turn to scabs. You are nothing but a scab and scar and time is the ecstatic affirmation of your identity.

Each new touch, however loving or hateful, is a laceration upon you—trauma. And each new touch points to an over-sensitive-you, to a self-infliction.

Sharing is your own damn fault. When your heart is on the line your heart is hurt often, and you know this damn well. When you share your truth, your truths are often shaken. When you try to be good, that good is challenged. When you try to do anything, that anything is consumed and spit out into your face in all its venomous, saliva-mucous rage. That rage is your rage and that meal is your meal. It’s your own damn fault.

Sharing is the answer to nothing and that nothing is what sustains you. Your soul doesn’t mind that nothing is nothing, only that there is indeed an answer. Your sustenance is a rage that creates and receives itself, lacerating and scabbing and scarring all the way to the grave.

But death perhaps is more than nothing. It may be something. It’s also not the answer. But the somethingness of death is what pushes us to constantly share our painful nothings with each other, to live.

This is something I’ve shared with you, and I think I feel better after sharing it. It depends partially on how I feel after you consume and spit it back into my face. But the onus is on me—it is the burden of my own infliction. The unending healing rawness of the scar and the scab will be all that defines me in the end: my identity, an amorphous, cyclical pain.

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