Scarred
A note about the wounds of a friend.
I want to have friends, but friends hurt.
You start relationships you say are worth keeping because there’s value.
You get close to people. People who know you but don’t understand. People that hear you but don’t listen. People you grip up but don’t feel the pain you want to share because you know the cost just might be too much for them to bear. After all, it’s a lot just for you.
But you open up. When you’re open, you have no control. Lacking control is not good because somebody will come along to tell you how you’re not measuring up to what they project of themselves.
What if you don’t want to be perfect? What if you just want to exist — finally — in peace?
But thousands of miles away, he was beyond my reach. And I can’t let that go.
The last time I told my friend I was depressed, they told me I looked like it. They suggested a haircut or a new outfit. Perhaps, if I looked better on the outside, I’d feel better on the inside. Initially, I didn’t take offense. I thought they were kind to care enough to give me the raw truth as they saw it. But I considered. I opened a wound, and their words were salt.
