SCARRED
Its on my knees, on my back, on my face; a scar. Each is a different childhood story, or a kitchen knife, or a tripping tale into a ditch. Its what these physical unfeeling objects spot my body with, these visible reminders. It’s as shallow as the abrasions appear to be, at least for me. These scars are from a place of pain, other times of fun and cured by an over the counter pill or a band aid and drops of antiseptic that send me screaming all day. They are wounds I would make excuses over; to not do the house chores and that I got guilty pleasures from to not attend school. They are bruises my parents would remember about and bring me sweet gifts in the evening from work. There is that which you do not see, or care not to probably because you don’t know. They cannot be buried like we do dead rats in the backyards. They crouch on to dark stacks of the conscious and the subconscious awaiting a slight touch on the edges to rip open and spill all the gore out. They hide but n