Scar

It’s not her that bothers me, but her memory. Silent yet oppressive, it stabs at me from the darkened halls of my past. They are not fatal wounds, or even life threatening, but even minor wounds can weaken and destroy if they are not treated. But how do you treat annoyance. It’s like a scar that is no longer tender but is still constantly touched, or a callus in an abrasive place causing constant friction.

My memories of her are the scar, and I would forget it was even there if not for the people who come up again and again asking to see it, touch it, or talk about it. Even if I say no, the reminder is enough. I know it’s there again, and I have to deal with the memories it brings until I can forget it again.

It’s not her fault I was hurt, I do not blame her for anything. If I were to see her today I would thank her, because the scars I have from her taught me important lessons about life. She would not ask about the scars, she probably would not even see them, and for that I am grateful. That’s one less person to remind me. It’s not her that bothers me after all, just the scar.