Scarred

These scars that

Decorate my skin

Healed as they are

On the external,

But  never will be

Profoundly within.

For wounds are wounds

Even in the second coming

And they’ll rip open

When you least expect it

To make you bleed

In the guise of tears.

Those knives that merely

Salted the inner injury

As cutting as the

Tongues of the great fabulists

They intruded

And raped my spirit

Which could have taken off

While it was still early.

Had they, those knives,

Been of any real help

To the purpose

Of lacerating me

To begin with,

I would have been

More than glad

To hold these fancy

Cicatrices up

as trophies.

Proud flesh–

But not me.