Scars

Scars

You see them sometimes
When they’re wearing short sleeves
Or have rolled their sleeves up
As if to get down to it
You want to glance away
But your eyes are drawn
To the lines of raised flesh
What else would they be
But scars the razor left
And if they’re there on the wrist
If they’re not say on the ankle
Does that mean they were in the bath
Blood purling like aerial silks
In the warm water
Not just cutting
To make tangible amorphous pain
But committed to it
And even if there are tattoos
That seem like testaments
To having survived something
You try to be gentler
As if they might still open
As if they’ll never heal