Time will heal wounds ???

That tired old adage — “Time will heal all wounds.”

Please.

It whispers a lie as sweet as rust on a blade.

We all carry our own tapestry of scars, don’t we?

Etched from childhood’s cruel games, adolescent heartbreaks that once felt like apocalypse,
families splintered, bonds severed so brutally you still hear the echo of the snap.

Each scar — a masterpiece of suffering, painted in shades only the soul can see.

But forget their wounds.

Let’s talk about mine.

My collection is… substantial.

And right now, the spotlight burns on the crimson stain left by love.

Five years have crawled by since divorce sliced my world clean in two.

I had almost convinced myself the phantom pain had dulled — that the landscape had finally flattened into peace.

Almost.

Then he arrived —

a comet that streaked across my sky, beautiful, destructive, fleeting.

And now the old gashes pulse again, a symphony of old griefs conducted by one fresh wound.

“Time heals all wounds”?

A charming myth for the hopeful.

My scars don’t fade — they hum.

They whisper of wars fought and lost, of nights where I stitched myself back together using thread made of stubbornness and denial.

They sting with defiance against the bland cruelty of healing.

So no — I don’t believe time heals.

It conceals.

It piles dust over the hurt until something — a name, a scent, a voice — shakes the ground,
and suddenly, everything you thought was gone rises again, breathing, bleeding, remembering.

Maybe time isn’t a doctor.

Maybe it’s just a grave digger,

and grief — my most loyal ghost.

What do you think?