Her words flow like a balm but land on me like drying honey. Sticky memories and untethered thoughts flood and flow like water on a dessicated sponge. Springing vibrantly from her tender remorse, her sponge renews disgust with the stench of what has died. She's late to the game and needs to rehash, relive, catch the rebound and make it her layup but I was never part of the team and I no longer want to play or cheer on a losing team.

Renewed rejection prickles and itches and my scratch is opening sealed wounds. I'm digging past the edges of a healed scab into flowing blood that was a series of superficial scrapes the first time.