Everyone is wounded. We were born with wounds, stenciled on to our body or we either scratch and tear easy. And you tore me the most. We are constantly hurting one another, to seek confirmation, to test our existence, to find out just how much does he love me?
Our wounds come in different shapes and sizes, we treat them differently. You're wounded too, look at how you cover it up everyday in the morning, you wake up and fake a smile. You put on a big bandage, and walk out to a brand new day. You wish. The more lies you tell yourself the deeper the wound gets, until the skin is rotten and loses hope of healing.
But I said I'd help you heal. Now I find it tiring. It drains me and makes me wonder why I didn't notice the wounds before. I left you, and started to look for someone with smaller wounds, he should be easier to look after.
I wouldn't be happy, because eventually, the smaller wound on his body will grow, I will get tired of treating it just like I did you and I am thrown back to the point where I started to judge people, based on their wounds.