My scars are simple, silly even
The result of shaving mishaps, stovetop altercations, mosquito bites, and the subsequent relentless scratching of said mosquito bites
These aren’t real scars
But I’ve seen true scars
I’ve seen that girl
The one whose mouth says she’s fine but whose eyes disagree
I’ve seen her, I’ve known her, and I’ve seen her real scars
Scars that aren’t simple
And not even close to silly
And intently watching her, I sit upon a wish:
That I could give her my scars instead.

I dip my toes in the tide
adjacent to the edge of my all-consuming paracosm.
The water is cold
alluring
unsteady
absolute.

Within it lies the demise
of one thousand dreams
999 unfulfilled wishes
And just over 13 ‘what if’s.

Right outside my humble fantasy
I spy a silhouette,
my potential self.

Warily I take a closer peek.
The girlish apparition reveals nothing
She seems to hold her breath while I lean farther in
And at long last, deserting all juvenile fancies,
reality greets me as I timidly wade
Into the waves.