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.