The Scar. I mean SCARF.

It’s unfortunate that the scarf I have weaved into the fashion statements of most of my outfits has grown cold. A scarf that used to hug me gently is now more like a knife in my back. A pain that won’t ever be healed. The pain of betrayal.

I couldn’t believe it when I was given the gift of the scarf. It meant so much to me that someone would give me something of theirs. Someone that meant so much to me would give me something that was theirs. Even though the person doesn’t exist anymore I still have the scarf to prove they were real. I doubt I just made the whole thing up. Right?


Were they ever real though? It’s not likely. It’s more likely I was playing pretend again with idealistic musings about what life could be. What life should be. I knew better than to enter a land where I do not belong, to take a scarf that is not mine and use it to mute the pain of an orphaned child. I did know better but how do you say no to feeling okay again? How do you say no to the thing that makes you want to be alive?

You don’t.

I still wear the scarf. Only now it is used to hide the wounds that it dealt and to also give me a sweet sigh of relief should I ever choose to leave these failed memories.


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