These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much the time cannot erase
What is a memory? Though a memory is defined as being a noun, I have trouble believing it is.
A memory is not a person. It may speak to me and offer companionship when I need it most, but it is not a human being. A memory does not have a brilliant mind; a beating heart.
A memory is not a place. I may visit often and enjoy the companionship of others who have made the trip with me, but it is not a place we’re physically capable of taking ourselves.
A memory is not a thing. It may have a beginning and an end, but you cannot reach out and touch a memory. You cannot hold onto those who lurk in your memory no matter how hard you try.
Memories do not exist. They simply aren’t real. The moment you convince yourself that memories are real is the moment you lose sight of reality.
Scars are real. Scars are the only true reminders if what has happened in your past. While memories may lie, scars can only tell the truth. A physical scar raised above the surface of the skin cannot make up an event; it can only show you the truth of what happened.
My story is told in scars. Each scar has been shaped into me for a purpose; to remember the past. If it weren’t for the obvious reminders every time I look in the mirror, my dull mind would easily repress the memory of my Lacey.
Lacey Gordon no longer physically exists. She has been gone for many years now. She is now nothing but a memory, but like all memories, my memory of Lacey lies. My scars of Lacey are incapable of lying. They are Lacey’s existence engraved within me forever.
“I love you, Lacey,” I whisper, lowering the blade, so sharp and silver, to the inside of my wrist, “this is for you.”