My original cut was at an early age. Trauma; the first significant source of pain. I learned then how to cover those wounds. Yet we know that bandages aren’t for healing; they’re for protection. Sometimes under the cover, they would still bleed. When left unattended they would fester into a hurt that would most likely never heal. Some wounds are left physically, some emotionally; but I’m talking about the spiritual wounds that none could see. There were those that were covered by a smile; some covered by denial. Even some that were shrouded in a silence that others could not understand.

Often, when our wounds are left unattended, they can bring about other illnesses that are not noticed until much later. Perhaps never noticed by the wounded at all; only seen as a sickness by those around them. Even then, if they are not brought to attention and nursed, they can grow into an abscess to the spirit. As unintentional as the neglect may be, the necrosis of self inevitably crawls into our being set upon the death of our soul. Still, if found and tended, a healing might bring light enough to allow insight into the cause and effect of the trauma. And if gently nursed, create a course of treatment.

Like all wounds, after a while, they would start to heal. Even fade into obscurity to be forgiven and forgotten. Yet traces of them would always be there, hidden in the recesses of my mind and heart. Over time, I realized that I had kept all the bandages neatly folded and tucked away. I knew where they were, still soaked with blood and tears, in that safe place where all memories were placed. I would sometimes reach for them to revisit the pain as a reminder of what that life had been. Yet still, would look upon them as medals awarded to the soul that survived the battles.

I am a person of fret; and fraught with trauma. Although the battles of the past are mere recollections now, the hint of those pains is still there for me to feel as if recapturing a memory. I thought it might be healthy, after so many years, to pull the covers off and let the wounds air out. Possibly, through that action, allow them to heal even further. So, page by page I air them. Sending them out into the world for all to see. Book by book there are the bandages ripped off to expose old wounds now scabbed and scarred. Though there you may see them; what made them may still be covered.

The calluses and thick skin are now visible as protection still as each brings back a haunted memory for me to endure. Yet a torture it is that I must bear if I am ever going to be able to place them on a shelf no longer needing to be read by the inflicted. When the necessity to pick and pull at them, sometimes reopening them, is gone, I will lay them to rest. Would I then be free to walk the world; even as a broken, wounded man? Perhaps then I will find a place of hospice in my heart; living for today, looking to tomorrow. At peace, knowing that I will live my life in scars due to these paper cuts.