It's cold and I feel it deep inside. It mingles with the cold that already engulfed me long ago. The imaginary life inside my head is a sanctuary from the world and all of its sharp corners. I bruise easily and I'm clumsy.

Sometimes the bruises and pain we carry with us heal into clotted scars. Thick masses that don't let anything in or out. They just merely resemble what used to be there before. Proof that something bad happened once and didn't heal correctly.