marks (where you were cut in) twain in poetry

they aren’t scars
they were never scars
they are
survival marks

they aren’t wounds
from nightly bars or
afternoons measured
out in coffee-spoons
they’re the places
where you healed

they’re faces
smiling back
as if to say
“this day won’t last”
as if they’re proof
this too shall pass

they aren’t scars
they’re brushstrokes
from the holy art
of the restart

Last updated February 17, 2016