The One (Prose)

I’d rather tear myself apart a million times over than to know what part of me broke it. A flaw pinpointed. Inspiring a desire to rip it free from my skin, to obliterate its presence. I would burn myself. Devour myself. Overload my senses. Drive myself mad to clear it from my name. Singe its impression off my soul. But all I’d be left with are scars over a permanent fixture. A piece of me that will never change, never die.

They say ignorance is bliss and I can’t help but agree. I’d rather be clueless. To second guess every one of my flaws than to know the one.