Scars hold the flesh in ways
hands never can
tell tales as old
as ochre on cavern walls.
Scars are the darkness
capturing light
the music found
in the silence of the past.
Lines straight, lines crooked,
jagged lump, half-crescent clip;
one exists above my top lip
another on the pad of my left thumb
their tales tell of steps taken
the twists and turns
the blood and pain –
how surprise captures us time after time.
Each scar is mine
sacred and restful;
a trauma
learning to breath into the future.
