When I was little, and I fell and got a scab, my mom always told me not to pick at it. She said that if I picked at my scabs, they could scar, and I'd have to look at that scar every day for a long time, or maybe forever. Or even worse, my scabs could get infected and I could get sick.

My mother never told me the same thing applies to people.

When you push people, when you force situations and conversations and relationships, or even when you delve into aspects of people so deep you know them from the inside out, it's dangerous. Those people can become those scars on your memories. Those ordinary things you think about every day. What you think of when you yawn, or a Sunday in December, or what Friday afternoons mean to you. That song that plays every where, that you know every word to because of him, or how baking brownies gives you flashbacks to someone else's kitchen. 

These are scars. Scars on your memories of people and times before when you pushed and you picked at them.

And maybe it's worse, maybe they're the infection. Those people that make you think that you are better than everyone else, that hold you to such a high esteem your ego inflates and you become a pompous version of who you were. Worse yet are the people that make you feel less than whole, like you are a broken piece of yourself. Those times when you feel like if you're not good enough for them, you're not good enough for anyone. The people that affect you and infect you, that leave those scabs.

So put some neosporin and a fresh bandaid on, and let it be.

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