original written 9.22.17 @ 9:15am
My scars are often my greatest battle. They are a reminder of and a strong connection to my recent past. On a difficult day my scars inflict memories of the false euphoria that created them. On an optimistic note, the same self-inflicted scarring reminds me that no matter how hard I attempt to forget – I am an addict. I yearn to leave behind that part of me; leave it back in the crumbling, dilapitated buildings I once resided in. Unfortunately, that piece of me has made its way to the salvage yard… Sitting, rusting, and waiting. Anticipating someone to come along and see its beauty and potential. Someone eager enough to restore it, polish it off and sell it for more than it is worth.
The scars are just that – scars. They are healed wounds, symaltaneously a consistent connection. As they keep me connected to the I that thrives and finds comfort in the shadows, I attempt to ground both feet in the sun light. A constant battle as to which warm sensation is worth more, which warm embrace is more pure. The longer I leave the scars alone the more likely they are to fade. If I utilize them as a bookmark than they will reestablish themselves, becoming much more than simple scars only skin deep. The creases of the dog eared pages will only become more defined. They mark the entry way to a meaningless and painless existence that demands a high price. I believe they will never leave me. Yet, at the end of the day they are just scars, no? All they are is scratches running along the surface. Nothing more, nothing less. They can only tell their story if I enable and relay it.
Ramblings of a heroin addict 