In a perfect world,
I could hide my scars
until they finally soften
and fade,
and then the t-shirts could
adorn my shoulders
just like they did before.
I could speak my mind
with no resistance,
and I would not worry
about another's opinions
because all that would matter
would be me
and my thoughts.

But this is not Utopia
and my scars are still here,
and they burn searing red
for so long that
it's too much to hide,
and I slip up
and I wear short sleeves.
And I constantly fear
of what others will think,
with scenes in my head
sending me over the edge
into a place
where my thoughts can ****,
and I'm not in Utopia at all.