“ed. now. picking at the scab that was starting to heal over. why did guys do that? too little too late?”

“My bodyHealed quickly. But the woundto my psyche was deep.Wide. First aid, too little, too late, left me hemorrhaging inside, the blood unstaunched by psychologicalbandage or love's healing magic.Eventually it scabbed over,a thick, ugly welt of memory.I work to conceal it, but no matter how hard I try, once in a whilesomething makes me pick at ituntil the scarring bleeds.In my arms, Ashante cries, innocence ripped apartby circumstance. Bloodied by inhuman will. Time will provea tourniquet. But she will alwaysbe at risk of infection.”

“It's never too late to start over!”

“It's never too late to change, it's never too late to heal.”

“Pride is a wound, and vanity is the scab on it. One's life picks at the scab to open the wound again and again. In men, it seldom heals and often grows septic.”

“But it was too late now. A lifetime too late. A million wishes too late.”