White scars on the back of my hands are in the shape of waxing moons. The callouses detail the sheer hours of emotional pugilism logged. I tape aching wrists and idly reach for a quill pen. I saw myself as a narcissist when the scars were still just scratches. Was exploring that echo a contest between myself and my inner-demons? One of hundreds of path-keepers on the journey up the mountain of self-actualization.
I peel a new tiny scab, and wonder if it, too, is a metaphor.
11:10 p.m. - 2016-02-25
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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