Is love a virus,
spreading throughout the body because of human touch,
needing constant attention to whoever bears it
but then can be healed eventually?

Or is love a disease,
spreading for the same reasons as a virus
and needing constant attention to whoever bears it,
but then destroys them slowly and painfully
leaving a scar?

B.K.

My scars tell a story
A much more permanent memory
Left by life's indelible mark
Mostly trauma's hallmark
Reminding me that my tormentous past was real
That I had wounds even if they eventually healed

Some will fade, but most will persist
And those are the ones that will teach a lesson
A reminder that they will always show where I've been but never dictate where I'm going
A promise that ultimately something positive comes out from the broken
Although the history behind it is pitiful
The future holds something much more beautiful

49 stitches, desensitised and disturbingly serpentine
13 inches of a rugged and raised line
So macabre you can't look without flinching
But I have come to gaze upon it without cringing
My scars may not look appealing
But are still a sign of healing
They say I took a hit but I survived
They are but evidence of the life I lived

The strongest and best of people have scars
So I'm glad my wounds and stitches left a scar
So like jewellery I show off my skin which has been marred
For everyone to see, like the scars of the universe; the stars
And maybe it will teach others that they can also heal
No matter the injuries they suffered, it doesn't have to be their Achilles heel.

R. Q.