from a child, holding a balloon
to a mother, ready with knife
you wound the iridescent
candlelight settings and hopeless romantics
this world that we live in
so eerie and white
yet tamed by men in black
within, she holds it
firmly, but not yet tightly
I walk proudly with the scars
carrying them around, at display
like an aborted fetus
those eyes as you look down
there is no innocence to be found
the cut is made
sincerity and modesty at its best