Checking for scars

The scars on my left wrist are faint. But I always feel them there. A reminder of my own mortality and the fragility of my mental home.

How with one too many drinks or one dark thought my reality can be shifted to a inescapable place of pain and heartache.

Pain has always had a home in me. And it likely always will. It lays dormant on days when I am much too busy to acknowledge its plea. Begging me to indulge in its truth.

To scratch it’s belly and to stroke it’s spine.

It curls up at my feet while I attend to my routine. Sometimes I might forget it’s there but it’s hair is no less tangled or matted than it was four, five months ago.

I just hold my head a little higher. Just so it’s out of sight.

It works, too, until we lose the lights. Then my senses wrap around it and I know we’re here…alone with one another again.

Pain is my prickly partner and my best friend.

My literal ride or die.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.