Let's Waste Time

I think I want you to be darker and twistier than you actually are, she says.

And the vicious flesh wounds that have ripped through your every muscle, have bled into your guts and wreaked havoc with your frailly beating heart, they seem mostly closed with those Bandaids you plastered across your skin. You walk through your days with a quiet smile and a confident direction.

But wounds heal into scars, into thick, pink bulges that do not give when you move through them. They make your steps less fluid, your laughter stick in your throat. They follow you where you go, always irritating your flustered skin, always reminding you how they tried to kill you.

So no, I am not as dark and twisty as you expected.

And it takes all I have, to keep it that way.