I tell them I'm over it.
But I'm not.
I don't think I ever will be.
The memory is like an ink stain on the canvas that is my mind.
No matter how many times I wash,
scrub,
scream,
it remains,
there.
Faded, but there.
Then,
a trigger -
a word,
or a look,
or a smell,
or the rain...
and it all comes rushing back.
As if a whole bucket of paint is tossed at my canvas,
completely encompassing every inch of it,
absorbing into every last fibre,
taking it over.
YOU ARE READING
Assorted Short Stories
RomanceFrom time to time, when I'm so far into my procrastinating that I'm even avoiding writing FNT, I end up on Tumblr for hours (I'm a sucker for high resolution pictures that speak to my heart) Anyway, often when I'm scrolling through Tumblr, I see a p...
