Love is playing Prometheus, strapping yourself to the side of the mountain and sewing up your own side so the birds might pick at you afresh. If we never did that, as sappy as the complete metaphor is, there’d be a lot less light in the world. And this little Greek tragedy plays out all the time. We don’t always see it. But with our backs turned they’re working with their needle and thread, sewing, stitching. All for you.

(…)

There was no reason to leave myself open. And all those cuts scarred up. The problem with scars is that you can’t work with them. They don’t behave like regular skin. You can’t burn a scar and you can’t tattoo one, either. It’s spent. You have to learn how to peel all that away if you want to try again. Not putting that hide back on at the sign of a bird can be as hard as weathering those first cuts.

Scooped from Kristan via My Heart’s Porch (the author of these words).