It is said that time heals all wounds
Every second the scar in someone’s heart,
That at first was so inflamed, so red and raw,
Fades away, finally leaving only distant memories,
Painful reminders that we never think to listen to
When we approach the hour of risking another lesion.
For does not time and suffering make us immune
To such sharp deceit?

However, I like to think of myself as paper.
Every, “Sorry, I don’t feel that way,”
Every, “I love someone else,”
Is like a heavy pencil mark
Leaving its dusty granite on my body and soul.
Although, sometimes the words
Feel more like Sharpies.

Yet, time erases wounds as well,
Or better than it heals them.
Unfortunately, its eraser is not always
The best judge of character,
For while it has the tendency to
Carelessly leave faint imprints of agony,
It expunges the friendship that paper
And pencil, although in our case,
Sharpie, once shared.
Leaving only silent, ignored betrayal.