I wonder how long does it take for a scar to be painless. For a scar to be just a mark, a distant memory, and nothing more. It always amazes me how trouble-free it seems for the people you love to leave you a scar. You don't realize your heart is in their hands until they crush it into pieces, in a blink of an eye, so... effortlessly. Like a dance that begins so very gracefully before it cripples a toe.
And it's not even their fault. You were the one who gave it to them through your actions and words. You.
"I thought my heart was made of steel, no?" No. Not when it doesn't belong to you anymore.
You may not be aware of this but when you hand your heart to a person, you are also giving him/her one other thing: A knife. This person will always have both. Your heart and a knife. Doesn't matter the latter will be used or not; he/she will always have the ability to cut you open at anytime.
It can be used once, or twice, or more.
It can be unused for so many years, before finally coming into the picture.
You will be surprised of how many times you are capable of dying and living again, dying and living again. It's quite fascinating. "Am I too weak or too strong?" You will never be anywhere in between.
It doesn't take much, really, once your heart is out there, all by itself.
Silence, can disable you. Broken promises, can destroy you. Forgotten words, can damage you.
Words. I hold on to words. Even when people don't mean it anymore and have moved on. Even when time has passed by and on the surface everything seems fine. I live on words. They are my secret cave. They are how I escape. When I don't write, I don't breathe. When I write, I bleed.
Words are everything to me when they are nothing to you.
I guess when a scar still hurts, it's not a scar after all.
It's a breathing wound.