Scabs - 2011

I’m picking at scabs occluding my sight;

the wounds began with your gaze.

Boxed in a window, 

glass was thicker back then.

Floors felt smoother under my feet;

I twirled and danced with false strength.

I’m picking at scabs which keep me safe,

thickened by repeats, your talons.

Stuffed in a box,

Paper didn’t tear so easily.

Clothes moved softly as my gauze;

I treated the wounds with tender hands.

Other worlds always made sense

as gardenias bloomed and masked

the horror

of the next visit, the next time

you would say “show me”.

External, internal, scabs all look the same: thick, dry, peeling, reforming,

replacing life

with compliance, the next time

you would say “last time.” I’m picking at scabs rotting my soul,

ill from your contagion of shame. Kept in a trunk,

Keys didn’t fit every time. Earth gave way by my force, I nursed the soul back to health.

I’m picking at scabs patching me up,

your spots stay where placed. Weeping in pillows,

Mascara stained too quickly. Fresh growth shines exposed;

I show the scars daily: They’ve faded yet still sometimes crack.