Burned, bruised and broken. One split lip on top of another. A line of bruises march up your back like a second spine.
You cut your lip walking up some stairs. The bruises come from childish horseplay.
Nothing big. Not for a tough kid. Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.
Don't touch my neck. Don't touch my shoulders. Don't touch my back. They all hurt but it's no big deal.
It's hidden why I can't sit down. Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.
Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind. It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride. A protective way to hide the tears.
As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching. If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.
These are the tears that I do not have to cry. They are locked within my skin reserved for burning. Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.
Bruises heal and skin always knits. But my scars, they weep forever.
Hanging On No More
19 hours ago