"Time heals all wounds." How often do people say that? Sometimes they believe it, Other times it's the only thing they can offer you. If time heals wounds, why are there still marks on me, Like the crime scene dusted for fingerprints? Perhaps they healed over long ago, And I'm just looking at scar tissue That runs so deep that it interferes with pain receptors, Making me believe I'm not done healing. I just know that I'm still hurting, And I've tried so hard to pretend those marks aren't there. When I could no longer pretend, I forced denial upon myself, Bathing in paint to make them disappear. I've flayed myself to the bone, just to make sure That the old, wounded skin is no longer attached to me. So when I look at those new marks, I know that's new, freshly-made scar tissue. But it never lasts, and sooner or later I can feel it; That same poison coursing through my veins, Reminding me that old wounds never heal. They seep into your cells and regrow at will.