let me look at my hand
and see what I see: on it,
a blistered mass, healed
somewhat, but not fully,
and I can remember
the knife sliding in, so
easily, so effortlessly,
like it was meant to.

it hurts, the wound I bear,
and this is not the only one.

most of them are hardly
visible, hiding in my body,
in my mouth, in my heart,
and most of them are old,
no longer holding pain, only
disfiguration.

let me touch this wound,
feel it move with fresh
blood and toughen under
my pressure.

like all of them: it will heal.
time will give this flesh new
life and its stiffness will fade
eventually.

this hand has not grasped
its last knife, and not felt
its last cut.

let me look at my hand
and see only a scar, not
a burden.