never trust someone who picks at their scabs. someone who won’t let it heal. because when the real pain strikes, they won’t let that heal either. like peroxide on a fresh cut they’ll wash it away and try to pretend its not so bad. hide it underneath a bandaid. but that itch will start to come back. and they’ll always go back to pick. then both your hearts become infected and i think that’s how scars are really made. i’m beginning to think i’ve become immune to all the remedies. to all the fixes. no neosporin or peroxide can save me. no whiskey or blonde haired blurs will fix me. but you’re always going to be the hospital that keeps its lights on late. that phone that always talks back. that letter that never gets lost in the mail. and i will always be that bird lost at sea. that flower trapped between two blocks of concrete. i will always have those bandaids stuck on me. i’m no longer chained to mistakes. but the shackles will always remain. like a quiet reminder.