It was painful, then, but it hurts a lot more, now.
The scar on my hand.
Who would have thought that ruptured porcelain bowl
Would break so easily?
Much like my future heart.
Or that the blood would flow so profusely,
Leaking out of the gaping wound,
Much like my future tears.
Yeah, it hurt;
But it was temporary, not ever-lasting, like now.
Back then, I had things to make it feel better.
The sun shined more brightly,
The laughter of children was music to my ears,
Everything was "we" or "our"; instead of "yours" and "mine",
The healing touch,
Of a tender kiss.
I think a lot about back then,
When the scar on my hand
Was just a scar.