Knives and shame

Knives and shame

I never scarred myself to feel.
It was just…so I could feel
a little bit less.
Or even…to feel something else,
another kind of else.
Or just…to strip away what was there
(a little) too much.
Digging away all the cards (or the parts)
I once held.
Stripping away…
like garments of a memory.
Like pieces of a rubber skin…
I just wanted to know what was there.
I hoped that the lines
would be scars
almost like a life-line.
Something to point… towards?
Bloodlines all pointing,
when I could’t find another way…
Just where to go.
I didn’t know how to stay it.
I didn’t see nowhere else.
Each scar was a scream,
something never heard, never screamed,
each scar was a dream, never dreamed,
many days never lived.
Words never said.

They all believe it will fade.
But it will never fade.
It’s all still right here.
In my heart—
the deepest scar,
never said…
A moment or lifetime—
always waiting for being more real,
and to feel. to hurt or to heal.

I can only know the scars now,
by what is there, what isn’t there…
by the things never known, never felt,
never lived. never spoken.

 

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