"What happened here?"
he asks
and rubs a questioning finger
over a knotted old scar.

I was hurt
in a battle against myself
a war really,
is the real answer
that I do not say.

"Nothing, just an old wound"
I say instead.

Sometimes the battles of the self
are the worse kind.
I wish he would say.

"It's okay, as long as it stays
an old wound."
He says instead.