A mix of pain and disbelief strike like a clock as I hear my mom's words again in my head. "I don't want to hear about your medicine, or your favorite candy bar, or your eye problem. I don't want to hear what you have to say. I don't care. I don't."
Something about words allows them to have this violent sting, similar to how I react to bees, with my near anaphylactic reaction. Something hurts even more when you know the words were intended, not out of anger, but out of legitimate feelings and nothing but the raw truth. Unlike the large inflamed area that aches for days after the bee sting but eventually ceases to remain, a slight but noticeable darkened spot of where the bee decided to proclaim territory tarries, never entirely removing itself. That mark is left for weeks, new moons, decades, just a small mark left to wholly symbolize the total caustic happening.
Tears are good. They don't come easily to me, not at all, but I wish I could cry more. When something absolutely sucks, and you're left broken, crying seems to me as a physical ridding of the pain, a final step towards healing. When you can't cry, you just remain, allowing these waves of emotion and hurt to sweep over you, but instead stare blankly, praying for the sun to rise on the distant horizon. And the injury beneath the surface begins to heal and grow a new layer of skin, baby steps to being okay again, when another tide comes ashore, breaking the skin, allowing the wound to return to square one.
Now I am here, in this place they call the present, though if this were tucked into a box decorated with shiny wrapping and an extravagant bow, I wouldn't want it. I would ask for the gift receipt and be first in line to get my money back. And even if they handed a card with store credit, to get anything but this, this small scalded burn would reside, throbbing more with every ice cube, every attempt to heal, forcing the words to feel unforgettable, after weeks, new moons, and decades, forever.
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