I keep looking at my arms for some sort of weird bitter
sweet comfort. They seem to accurately
reflect the two sides to my soul.
On my left arm there is nothing but clean skin, a reflection
of the “good” part of my soul that has control over her life. This is the face
I show to other people, my work arm. It is the part of me that does not tell
outright lies, but instead simply lies by omission while knowing all the
secrets of my right.
My right arm, the “bad part” tells the tales of past truths,
when I roll up my sleeve I am looking at the evidence of past wrongs etched
into my skin, I hate the way I have to be so careful not to expose my naked,
angry arm even in front of my husband, until the scab comes off and the scar
fades because I hate to admit that I have to burn in order to cleanse. I am
bound to long sleeves throughout Summer in case I bump into someone I know.
On the other hand (pardon the pun) it makes me happy that
the last burn is scabbing well and I am internally hoping it will leave a
noticeable scar, a reminder of my inability to retain self- control for any
length of time and an incentive to do better next time, I hate when they don’t
scar, because I feel like a failure and I just wish I had the courage to just
sit down for the last time and slit along the vein with a knife to end the lies
and end the pain.
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