It only takes a small cut
  It only takes a soft word
in the right spot
  in the right ear
to sink deep
  to sink in
and scar for good.
  and bring healing.

~Shatter me, Humpty! Into Faberge~
Paint — the cracks, laden:
Urushi, gold leaf, lame.

~Drape me, King! In novel robes~
Hide thine – from naked eye
Of unsightly misanthropes.

~Devour me, Men! Unbecoming~
Break thy yolk and stir it, runny –
Scramble over my gutting!

Devoted to a vexing repercussion,
Tangible emptiness espoused to my memories,
"Where do I keep you?" I wonder,
Symbolically,my heart is a coal,
You will grow weary of it's coldness,
Symbolically,a soul I am not comprised off
However shall you feel my warmth?
Symbolically I am a blank canvas stained with red
Shall you saviour the scars that bleed?
Symbolically, attuned to madness I have become
Shall you join me in its depths?
As I am it's vessel like no other.

i am made of every person i have met,
and every person i will meet.

some are and will be kisses on cheeks,
others are and will be cuts.

i just hope
those that scar will stop pinching as i move.

Press it down against the skin,
just enough to make a crease;
sharp side down.

Pull it back
smooth and perfect,
exchange this pain
for one that's eloquent,
warm, and sharp around the edges.

Tracing the blood inside my veins-
with red lines
carved across my wrist.
Another scar,
flowing red and honest.

With each stroke
I etch this strange relief,
Admiring the red and silver swirls
that make the masterpiece,
and drown the sorrow
that brought steel and flesh together
into this unholy union.

The sweet taste of torture,
sharp side down.

i got a paper cut
and i picked at it
until its corpse
become a permanent headstone
on my skin.

you hurt me,
and i picked at it
until it began to scar,
until it began to
tighten the skin.

i will never be able to escape the ache of you.
never be able to revive myself.
or be able to relieve the pain of the skin pulling.

but i will always try to heal it,
even if it is no use.

She left his heart roaming with no regards
And her cold farewell cut deep into his core.
He loved her in full yet reaped a deck of shards
That spelt out a broken heart, nothing more.
His friends see weakness in his tender state
And their words like spicules spike his sleepy soul.
With a smile, he masks his wounds that seal his fate
But has lost his circle and has been left less whole.
The world casts stones at his every move
Unseen the scars that mar his every thought.
They judge in haste his broken groove
Not knowing it is the hurt that life has brought.
He walks on a lonely bridge beneath the moon’s pale night
And his heart, like a ship adrift at sea, is seeking for a new light.

The urgent care is the nursery
Where I choose my seeds with thought.
The doctor is the gardener
Who knows how to fix what I’ve wrought.

She sows the seeds inside my skin,
Yet not with a trowel or ***.
She uses a needle and surgical thread,
With budding knots lined up in a row.

Then she leaves me with my tidy ground
And some knowledge on how I should care
For the lined up plot she’s left to me,
Whose potential I’m required to bear.

The deep rivet I slashed into my skin
Is where the seedlings take root.
The blood from my veins keeps them moist
As the new blossoms stand resolute.

But when the weather grows dark and dreary,
My sprouts need cover from the cold.
So I bundle them up with jeans and sweats
To protect them and let them take hold.

But despite the layers I pile atop,
The small spiny blooms poke through.
I run my fingers back and forth,
And marvel at how fast they grew.

Then after they’ve grown for fourteen days,
I return to the nursery at last.
The gardener plucks and prunes and picks
‘Til the wounds and the blooms come to pass.

So now the perennials have passed us by,
And the sprouts have been taken to bin.
The wound that watered my seedlings’ through,
Has left but a scar on my skin.