Familiar Ache

I keep planting gardens in my wounds, wondering why everything tastes like rust. Maybe I don’t want to heal— maybe I just want prettier scars. Some nights, I mistake my reflection for something I’m supposed to save. It’s not love. It’s recognition. I keep circling the fire because I built it. I don’t miss the pain— I miss having something to blame. I never wanted happiness. I wanted familiar. And familiar feels like bleeding in places no one looks. Healing scares me. Who am I without the ache? So I named my bruises just to feel less alone