My skin is but a map of scars
a journal of all the times I have betrayed myself.
Raw emotion settles in silver lines
multiplying with every breath taken
in fear and rage at my reflection.
I write meaningless lines in hope of cure as I carry the weight of their shame. I let them go, to travel into the ether in hope of reply, of friendship, of hope that I am sometime seen. A doppelganger of my former self, I writhe and spit lines at shadows, the longing too deep to name, my loneliness a constant echo within the barrens of my mind.