It is upsetting to know that me, myself, don’t even know whether I suffer no past scars or I still have a glimpse of it. These past years, I believed that I have finally opened a new chapter of my life. Is that really it? Or was it only a time where I convinced myself that I am alright now? “You will eventually heal from that,” “You will recover,” and so on. I had a faith on those words. But it sinks in. I tried to love again but I count with my fingers, all of them were failures. Complete failures. Whether the problem is on me or God knows who. It’s almost crazy that I always asked in my head, “Why don’t they hurt me?” as I waited as if it’s a completely normal thing to happen in a relationship. Platonic or not. Fuck them all. I somehow believe that I no longer have a proper shape: whether to love or to be loved. I am in no shape to be fixed. And that’s fine by me.