scars

ph: Anja Mulder

What do you do about first loves? Where do you put them in your heart? Where do you put them in your mind? He will always be a scar like the one from summer camp permanently tarnishing my unblemished skin. Scars are ugly. They are the remnants of a painful, bloody mess. Physical and emotional wounds result in the same consequences. Just because this scar is on my heart and not on my skin doesn�t mean there�s any less of a story or significance. Actually, this invisible wound has a much darker, dismal, severe story to tell. It is far more painful than actual gushing blood and spilling guts resulting from adolescent clumsiness. I hardly ever notice the scar on my leg; I only remember it is there when someone asks about how I got such a gash. I wish I could do that with my heart. Only, no one would observe this internal mark, so it would never be brought up again. I think my mentality about this scar is flawed. I must think about it like my leg. The event happened; it hurt badly; I cried; but it has not affected me in any way ever since the stitches came out and the skin molded itself back together. It�s just there. Nothing more; nothing less. He will always be there to some extent. He co-piloted my youth, so undoubtedly, when I reminisce on those days, he will be in those recollections. But he will just be there. Nothing more; nothing less.

My heart has somehow managed to repair itself; the pieces I�ve haphazardly stitched together over the past year have somehow managed to mend. The blood once escaping profusely, depriving me of life and exuberance, is now coagulating. My heart has a beat. But it isn�t the same heart I had before this debacle. It has his name permanently engraved there. Like lost lovers� names on an old tree. But, the tree still thrives regardless of the deep cuts into its flesh; its foliage is green and lush. This must signify that I can still flourish, despite his mark on my heart.