Scars

Just a glimpse as we talk…
but the scars
on your arm,
they scare me;

dare me
to stare.

Healed now, yes,
but so deep,
definite,
decisive.

Intended.

We go on,
but I’m distracted.

All I see:
the wounds;

all I imagine:
the blade-cuts, the blood;

all I sense:
your past despair.

And it chills me.

Naïve,
I want to step back.

Too polite,

I focus hard on your words,
but all I can think is:
why?

Was each incision
- with its promise of pain -
an attempt at escape?

Was it freedom gained,
even for just a moment?
Or was it pure self-hate?

I give in.
Can’t help myself.
Look again:

see disordered rows of
rough, ragged razor bites,
now melted closed
like candle wax,
cooled and hardened.
Skin no longer smooth,
its innocence lost.

And there are so many:

Here,
you cut.
And you meant it.

Here,
you carved.
And you meant it.

Here,
you gashed.
And you meant it.

Here,
you gouged.
And you meant it.

Here,
you sliced.
And you meant it.

Here,
you slit.
And you meant it.

All your own work.

I do not judge -
but your ripped-then-fixed flesh
is just
too
much.

So many questions unasked.
Conversation ends.
I run away.

Your skin,
it defeats me.
Proves me a coward.

The Avenues

Sandsend 27/9/22