Thursday, 23 February 2017

Invisible scars...

She had tattooed her arm
to stop the cutting,
perhaps by making it beautiful
she might find some peace.
Razor blades are not ink.
Scars a desperate art.
The cutting, the only way
to make her forget, not think.
She liked the sleeve.
A bird, black hearts, two fish,
an almost quote from Lao Tzu:
‘The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single wish’.
Not a single step.
That was so hard to take.
It sat there speaking wisely,
traced red on chicken skin bicep.
Too many forced steps,
her life a trap,
a scared lemon squeezed,
no time left for any of that,
not going there again.
That is what her adornment was for,
a covering of her past.
She picked up her bag,
shrugged off the door,
she was shedding him at last.
Shredding him at last.
At the station she caught the train,
South, then west for hours.
A little travel for years of pain
that was now her past.
And as she sat she considered
if her thighs and breasts and arse
would be peonies, runes, or stars,
symbols to bring her healing
and hide her invisible scars.

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