Metaphor Monday “Canvas of Scars”

There were cuts and nicks sprinkled all over, like a canvas of scars. He looked down at his hands and then his arms, turning them around and realizing how many had piled up over time. His fingers were the worst. Scars reopened and scabs barely had time to heal. Fresh wounds lined the creases and the wrinkles. Even his knuckles were slashed. His skin had grown tough and thick, but it was not enough. There was no place on his hands that hadn’t bled before.

He looked up and saw a thick forest of roses illuminated by sheets of light from a golden sun. They stood perfectly still, entrancing him with their beauty. He reached out and slowly ran his finger on a rose petal, feeling the soft, smooth surface of its red seduction. And then his hand flinched back, as he reached a tall and outgoing thorn. He turned his hand around and saw a fine, thin cut at the tip of his finger. Blood slowly built and dripped from it. He pinched his fingers and smeared the blood between them.

The cuts are so small, he’d tell himself. They barely hurt.

But he’d look at his arms and see how they had compiled through the years.

Its time, he accepted.

He turned around and saw that he was standing at the edge of what was illuminated in that forest. There was nothing but dimly-lit thickness ahead of him. A shadow bearing silence.

Its time, he accepted.

He blew a kiss to the roses and held back a tear. I will miss you, he told them.

And then he stepped into the shadow. On the path to that great unknown. And towards the journey to heal those scars that just want to be scars.

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