Some wounds fade with time, healing until they are barely more than a scar, a constant reminder of what has come to pass. Other wounds stay with you forever, etching themselves into you until you can no longer see where you end, and they begin. They fester inside of you, welling until you can no longer contain them. And then you overflow.
Oddly enough, I feel empty. I am almost bursting, leaking around the edges where they become fuzzy, and yet I feel as alone as always. Like I’ve been left standing on a street corner, hovering insecurely next to a telephone pole as I wait in the cold. Because I have.
I stare up at the gray expanse of clouds above me, and know that I should have seen it coming. I should have seen everything, but I was blinded by my hope, by my longing to be good enough, just once.
I feel stupid, for dreaming that he meant what he said, that he said more than he meant. He has a life, a family, a girlfriend. What am I, anyways? The answers floats into my head unbidden, like the cold wind that whips through my hair. Nothing. I am absolutely nothing. And I should have known enough to understand that.
I can feel something deep inside of me welling up, pricking behind my eyes, urging me to let it all out. Instead, I stare back up at the sky, and let the wind dry my tears before they fall. Because he’ll call. He’ll call and apologize, and tell me not to be sad, because I am important, because he does care. I turn back towards the street, struggling against the pain inside of me, forcing it back down. With one last grimace, I cross against the light. And I keep walking.
Some wounds can be hidden, buried away under colorful Band-Aids, until you almost believe that they don’t exist. Under their protective coating, they’ll swell and burn, and when you finally look at them again, you’ll hurt all the more for what they have become. But everyone wants to believe in something- a lost love, a sunny day. So they may as well believe in possibility.