I have a problem with my wrists. It’s something that I can’t exactly figure out. I stare at my wrists more than humanly possible, as if they are going to change in appearance or size. I memorize the veins and how visually transparent they seem against my skin. I feel the cracks in the bones and how phantom the pains from the past can come knocking. Sometimes they ache when they bend, but most of the time I am making something out of completely nothing.
Through the years, I see scars that were once scabs on my skin healing. Understanding from salt of words that never allowed themselves to heal properly. I remember wanting to tattoo sleeves on my arms to hide all the bruised scars, so nobody would find them. Where not even I could place the tiny lines that haunt my skin. Lines that no longer exist to the naked eye but always exist to me. I could tie a thousand ribbons on my wrist to hide from all this pain. I could paint a thousand words and sayings to take this grief from forming. I could lie to a million people that look toward my skin as a badge of honor. Some days it feels like a loss instead of an honor. I can’t help but feel guilty that I seem to always do this to myself.
Only I know my scars secrets. I know its whispers that call on me to remember things long forgotten. All the stories that come forth every time a new scar forms. I am better than this. I am stronger than these scabs that turn to scars and leave my stories on my wrists. Yet, I sit here thinking of stupid shit I should have forgiven myself long ago. I forgive myself countless times, but just muster the courage to forget.
Because I never forget.