No sign of old pains fading. It's been years since a blade carved open a vent for trapped emotions. Every wrinkle, bump, every single unevenness is a memento - or memorial - of me losing to myself. All that I know.
And yet, although it's more like a graveyard now, an abandoned battlefield, a field of shame, there is still an ongoing battle. Every day. Little skirmishes. And a crawling shadow, the ever-present fear that one day I will lose again. Because I never got strong for myself, but for others. Because I care for them, but couldn't care less for myself.
That's probably why, somewhere hidden in this blood-soaked war-zone, in one of the scarred graves, lies my hope for happiness. I might not slowly destroy myself anymore, but I definitely haven't started to rebuild the broken me. It's just that. Like an old dig site. For those, willing to search, there might be so interesting past to be found. But it's something that is lost. No matter how well it's reconstructed, there is no more place for it in the present.
It is so very weird. There are days, I almost feel good again, but moments later, the cracks start showing and I feel like falling to pieces again. The thing is... the one person who should try to fix me has always been the one with the baseball bat. I'm the fucking china shop that decided to open store in a bull compound.
