scars

_It's hard for me. To let people in. Hard for me to share my joy, my excitement, my resentment, my fear. Hard for me to share my sadness, my pain, my secrets. I have them. Secrets. Big ones, small ones. Ones that seem big but really are quite small.
_When we have scars we remember the pain and size of the original wound, not the faded old mark on our skins. Scars are merely what we show the world. But it leaves a mark much deeper than can be seen on the surface, permanently changing us.
_Some things you cannot mend. Try as you might. A crystal vase, bumped off the edge of an endtable, shattering across the floor. A vehicle twisted and tangled, a once prized possession now a heap scrap metal. An antique hope chest ravaged by an unforgiving fire. Or a tortured soul, battered and bruised, hidden and apprehensive.
_And so it's hard to forget. Hard for me to move on. Hard for me to allow myself happiness, to invite serenity. And it's hard for me to be honest. Honest with myself and honest with you. But any apologies would be feeble attempts to... to what? To uncover those wounds and let you in? To set myself free? To experience tranquility and the longed-for peace among my unsettled emotion? A question whose answer seems, at this point, futile.