The scar tissue that covers my forearm fades more with each year, And I wonder if any of you notice.
Each disfigurement is marked with a name.
Every single line contains its own story, and holds its own pain.
I could narrate it for you but I doubt you'd understand, very few truly do.
The stinging pain can creep back with a subtle memory, and I can still feel it.
I can remember each scars meaning but I can't explain to you the feeling of how it felt,
Or what type of clarity came over me,
Or how great it felt to be flooded with relief,
Or what I was hoping the outcome would be,
Or if I made it deep enough to sleep forever.
You might think I'm crazy.
I can never make you get it.
I'd be lying if I told you these stories ended happily.
This isn't a fairy tale,
This is reality.
