Don’t let anybody tell you your scars
still itching, as if they were
filled with electricity,
gives them power.
Let them scream for
attention, deeper wounds do not matter any more.
Though
they carve their love into
you, you are not stone: know
you are earth, a flowerbed,
saltless, rich, ready to bloom anew:
seeds sown, all sewn up, you
tend red rows of rosebuds.
All the thin shadows in
your skin mean is that
you are healing: remember
digging fingernails under scabs
will always make you weep.
Some people take
stitches to undo: do not
trap them
in your flesh like inflammation,
wash away the static shock,
pull out the shards of
glass. Your hard heart
will turn to snow,
to blue tac, soft but greyed. Warm
yourself in your own hands.
Write names in condensation,
let them fade until
your reflection smiles back at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Don’t let anybody tell you your scars
still itching, as if they were
filled with electricity,
gives them power.
Let them scream for
attention, deeper wounds do not matter any more.
Though
they carve their love into
you, you are not stone: know
you are earth, a flowerbed,
saltless, rich, ready to bloom anew:
seeds sown, all sewn up, you
tend red rows of rosebuds.
All the thin shadows in
your skin mean is that
you are healing: remember
digging fingernails under scabs
will always make you weep.
Some people take
stitches to undo: do not
trap them
in your flesh like inflammation,
wash away the static shock,
pull out the shards of
glass. Your hard heart
will turn to snow,
to blue tac, soft but greyed. Warm
yourself in your own hands.
Write names in condensation,
let them fade until
your reflection smiles back at you.
