You see things
aren’t great
they’re tough they’re stressful

I’ve seen things
mostly though
I’ve done things

To myself
to others


It’s not all bad (I’m okay. now?)
though the bad eclipsed
the good

It’s left me with scars
a plowed field on my left arm
an insignia of rank. A decorated veteran

scars on the skin are
a projection of the psyche
just a manifestation

The real scars run deeper
the real scars weren’t made with steel
the real wound was made by people

people who I trust(ed)
people who I love(d)
friends

Broken trust broken boundaries broken friendship
all compound fractures
marring the skin



the cutting wasn’t an illness
it was a symptom
of an ailing mind

an agonizing mind
an acrid acidic mind
burning away blinded

the smoke of its own plight
blotting out the world
blotting out the light

a cut pierces the pall
slashes the smoke

it lets you breath
it lets you see
it lets you forget
if only for
a moment.

But Cuts
are Band-Aids

on a severed artery

they don’t ebb the flow
they don’t change the tides

they can’t stop your vital
hourglass sand from slipping
through your fingers

They don’t give any control
when you need it most
they take it away

and then you aren’t holding the blade
the blade is holding you
and you’re lost again.