Etched in floor boards,
underneath the **** rug
were my initials before they
changed.

Carved into my forearm
was my favorite date,
when I had changed and
become a better person,
but the scar healed over.

I have lost the original sting,
the pain I had given myself
to make me feel again.
And I shielded it with bandages
and ugly rugs that hid my pain
and my floor. My low points.

I am a curve ball without a
place to land,
and though I hate it,
it is starting to feel like
home.