The healing couldn’t have taken long, but the agony stretched it afar.
Made its residues prominent, evident, like sickening tar.
The scars were a mere reminder that the memory is here to stay,
The mind scoffed, all the traumatising flashbacks couldn’t have disappeared anyway.
How do you push back thoughts that become a part of your very existence?
For they don’t reason with your identity even if you manage a secure distance.
How are you expected to flip your hair and bear pain far-fetched?
What you wish to be elusive despairingly becomes etched.
The path of healing is coarse with crevices throughout
Every stone in the way compels you to take a different route
Yet you tread on, feeling heavier with every step
While the wicked brain takes you back to all that’s gone and all you’ve left.