“Have you ever loved a woman?” He seems to hesitate for a moment, but shakes his head. “It’s the only brand of pain I refuse to inflict on myself.” “Why is that?” He sets the picture down and lifts my arm, tracing my scar with his finger. “When you cut yourself with a blade, there’s an open wound, and blood and pain, but the pain comes to an end and the wound seals to a scar. So you cut yourself again and again, because you forget how much it hurt the first time. The heart is a different animal. A caged, lonely scavenger that feeds on its own wounds. Its scars never heal, because you can’t
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