It kills.

I burnt myself. Over my heart. It was my fault, I turned the heat to the highest degree. I wasn't attentive, I didn't care to be. Why this time? By now, it was a routine, somewhat unspoken. In less than thirty seconds, there was a rush, a jar of emotions and mind. In less than thirty seconds I teared up as the pierced pain rushed back to its orphanage. A bit of my flesh peeled off. I'm exposed to impurity. A deeper seam of my flesh is vulnerable to yonder pain. I stood there, in amazement, felt foolish, I was too close to comfort, and yet I was comfortable enough to pull it in closer. The ache keeps me up at night. If I give it any attention it seems to ease for a second, then burn stronger than before so. The pain lingers, it doesn't let me rest, it doesn't let me forget. When I look in the mirror, I am not the girl of yesterday. I'm scarred, and its visible... even to the eye of a stranger, especially of a stranger. I have a wound. My mother says to not cover it up, let it breathe, let it be, let it heal. If it was only that simple. As the pain wakes me up, I lay still and wonder if I should wear it with pride, show the strength I have left. I get up and run to find a band-aid only to find that I don't have one big enough for the open wound. So I will show everyone. It will heal. It will bruise, it will scar, it will heal. Through out it all, I will wake up each night, I will scream with wrath, from frustration, only to try to ignore the ache. I burnt myself.