When I was 8, I thought that the scars that bleed too much, were the ones that hurt the most.
My first memory of childhood were beautifully scraped knees. I remembered standing up after the fall, I remembered trying so hard not to shed a tear. Even then, I knew that I was strong - acting as if I never felt the blood gushing from these delicate skin. I thought I was brave enough to handle all these scars - which was for me the worst of all the pain back then. But 8 years later, I was wrong.
8 years later, I realized that the scars that hurt the most are the ones that didn't bleed.
I was 16 when love betrayed me. By then I felt that blood instead pushes its way back to my heart, holding a ball of fire, burning the insides of my very own body. I tried numbing the pain - piercings, tattoos, any that involved punctures on my skin. I always thought that it would hurt less if I was to experience pain outside this angry body. But I had failed to heal this raging pain inside. I had failed my soul to escape, and left it burnt together with the blood that flows through my veins. It is now nothing but dark memories of all the things I have been through. Dark yet screaming red and orange, as if it was in flames, and it was suffocating.
I never knew that this that I have always wished for when I was little would also be the only thing that will hurt me the most - Love.
Even the thought of it makes me struggle for air.