A Scar I Hide

I used to only have scars on the outside, from falling down on my knees and hitting the ground with my elbows; from picking scabs because I was too bored to do anything else.

Slowly, though, I formed a new scar. Just one. But it was big enough to hide the whole world.

It grew from the start of a friendship and it didn't stop. The scar grew over my heart, over my chest; it stopped me from feeling, from breathing raggedly. I felt nothing because the scar was now my heart.

A scar is defined as something not healed. This new scar became my broken heart. Broken by nobody but myself. I hid it from anybody I loved because I knew they would get even more hurt because of me. They didn't need that.

It kept growing, soon taking over my head. I didn't talk to anybody unless talked to; I didn't put in any effort to see anyone; I didn't affect anyone in any way. I learned that the best way to stay hidden and not hurt anyone is to hide in plain sight. Just be a passerby walking in the halls.

The scar is still there today, and I don't think it will ever go away. It always haunts me, never letting me forget. So it is just another scar I hide, like all the ones on me that it itself has caused.