It's a slow burn. You don't feel it at first. But it eats away, day after day. It's the kind of pain that doesn't hurt, the cut that doesn't bleed, scab that never heals. Clogged arteries to your head, and there's only one cure, one cure in the chamber. But it's hard, so very hard. I still feel it, I still think about it, even after all these years. Every moment, every word, every brick. Gnawing on my bones. 'Cause that is all that's left. No nerves left to irritate, no eardrums to vibrate, don't remember fear, can't resurrect hate. No nerves left to irritate. You can still hear the echoes, of all that was said. Still feel the nails of her will, the edge of his tongue. I still feel it, I still think about it, even after all these years. Scab that never heals, the cut that doesn't bleed, it's the kind of pain that doesn't hurt. You won't see it at first. It's a slow burn, one that leaves no coals, no ashes as evidence. There are no pieces to put back together. You can look, but you won't find any. Because it's a slow burn. And you'll only notice it was there after it goes out.
