The scars on my wrists were once connected to my heart.
And every time I made another dent.
I would harden myself into something different then me.
But I would also expel pain with the dots of blood.
Which would soften the blow.
Each one held a story in it's scabbed over grasp.
And I would sometimes pick to see the forgotten ones.
It got to a point where it didn't hurt as bad.
And they faded.
But the memories still sit.
Below the surface.
Waiting to be forgiven.
