I buried her
7:51 p.m.

My scars are hidden. Scabbed over and numb. Hidden so no one can touch, can make it real, again.

But you touch. You find them and you touch and I hurt again. I hurt and I remember and I don't want to. I left it all behind. But you keep finding it.

Can't you just let it go?

I know you're not doing it on purpose. You don't know. But you seem to have a knack for finding them anyway. And picking at them until they bleed again and I remember where they are and why they are and who they are and who I was.

I liked my scars hidden. Scabbed over and numb.

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