"Time heals all wounds."
That phrase is a lie.
Though we say it all the time,
That does not make it true.
Time is fickle with how it treats us,
Because it never works the same.
Time sits on a clock and flows through the air.
Time is sunsets and sunrises,
Seasons and years.
Yet no matter how many sunrises I see,
And no matter how many hours tick by,
It seems I haven't finished healed.
Waiting and waiting,
I've spent my whole life waiting,
Because of that fictitious phrase.
Waiting for the world to fix me,
For time to fix me,
For stitches to weave my cut together magically, as if out of thin air.
Instead, my gash closed itself,
Bloody and battered,
Healing with necessity instead of "time."
So, I stared down the numbers on the clock and willed them to stop.
But they never did.
Time kept moving and yet never healing,
And so I learned to heal myself.
With every sunrise and every hour,
I feel myself growing stronger.
I feel my own healing doing more than time ever would.
I lost hundreds of sunsets and thousands of hours waiting for them to fix me.
I lost years of my life watching a clock, counting down minutes over and over.
Because sunsets, sunrises, hours and years could not heal me...
Only I could do such a thing.