You are the gateway between the past and what is important, the realm between excruciating pain and happiness. You are the unforgettable scar stretched across every inch of my body that’s never going to let the past go. You are the old brick holding open the deteriorating door of a shed full of rusty tools I have no use for.
Do not get me wrong, you are an angel in the flesh. You are the yellow overhanging lamp in the quiet street at night, the white dove in a murder of crows. But I can’t help but see the cracks slowly appearing through as every conversation crosses through. I can’t help but feel broken with parts of me still breaking off. I thought I could handle this, I thought I could move on from every dent of my past, but you’re still there with your finger unintentionally pressing down on my bruises.