If you clicked on this post expecting romantic drivel, well, you wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but you wouldn’t be entirely right either. Like so many things in life, your assumptions about this post aren’t wrong, but they aren’t right either. It’s the textbook cliched romance story about self harm that has tumblr drooling (no offence, but you & I both know what I’m talking about xD)
I’ve often been one to roll my eyes at cliches, especially ones about romances. Yes, there is magic enfolded within every kiss on the forehead, within every butterfly in your stomach. I’ll admit, there is magic when your eyelash falls on your S.O’s cheek and they make a wish on it. There’s magic, but not the magic that is wrapped in fairy-lights, not the type of magic you’d see in a movie. (basically, not the type of magic that has eleven year old fangirls going crazy) There’s a magic that’s somehow more real, and that is the very magic that has lead me to believe that- yes, kisses do heal scars. Especially scars of this nature. Because when you kiss something, you’re essentially saying “yes, this accepted by me and I love it about you.” And honestly, I haven’t even fully accepted and loved my scars yet. They’re a part of my past that’s forever embedded into my skin (yes, my scars are ever-so-permanent) and they’re a part of my past awaiting my own acceptance. I guess it struck me as weird when my S.O. was able to accept a part of me I still had trouble even looking at, and not only did he accept them, but he sealed his acceptance with a kiss. Was that kiss a stamp of closure on a chapter of my life that seemed to come back to haunt me no matter what I do? (yeah, recovery sucks, so if you’re ever considering self harm, get ready for one hell of a ride to recovery) Because I can tell you, for a fact, that the next time I consider relapse, I’m also going to consider that kiss. Relapse now seems to encapsulate a lot more than just my pain- now it also sees to break the invisible line of trust draw by that one kiss on my most prominent scar. Damn, thanks for making relapse harder. (no seriously, that kiss is gonna make me too guilty to cut again) And I guess, in that sense at least, kisses do heal scars- because what kind of monster would slash up and mutilate a place which has been a runway for kisses? I’m a monster, and I have no problem with hurting myself, but him? with his constant faith in my ability to recover? I swear to the Gods I don’t believe in, hurting him with my actions would break my heart, and I guess that’s when hurting myself becomes so much harder. Is this a blessing in disguise, or a demon in disguise? seems like neither to me.
A kiss is a kiss. Be it a kiss on the lips, kiss on the cheek, kiss on the wherever *insert winky face* a kiss is a series of muscle contractions, and following this train of thought, I should probably stop overthinking. Ahh, but if only it were that easy. I mean, c’mon guys, we’ve been over thinking these things for years now, and if a kiss was reduced to being perceived as nothing but a series of muscular contractions, imagine how many pages of fan fiction would lose their meaning?!? If a kiss was just a series of muscular contractions, how many sappy chapters in cheap romance novels would be reduced to nothing? It would be a tragedy. Real talk, though, I think maybe it just took me aback that someone was able to love me more than I love myself, even if it was just for that brief moment. Looking back on it, I realized it’s probably the most meaningful of kisses I’ll ever have in a long while- because it’s getting me to (reluctantly) admit that recovery isn’t that bad anymore. ❤