the scars on my knuckles.

the scars on my knuckles,
pink and raw and sometimes holding little white mountains,
in which the fingers of my left hand like to climb.
at each crevice a river of deceit forms,
a new story i create.

you see-
the scars on my knuckles were made,
in a battle with a sleek white polar bear.
we faced off on an arena of ice, bearing nothing but hands as weapons.
definitely.
my palms held hurricanes,
they destroyed everything in their path.
i won, of course, but not without struggle.
plenty of struggle...

the scars on my knuckles appeared,
after having fallen into a thorn bush.
furious needles scraped away my skin and left their mark.
it was a journey to rescue a soccer ball.
clearly i was a hero,
and well-
i had used my hands... as a shield to my face.
totally did that.

a wall has formed along the border of my mind,
keeping thoughts and reality at a distance for fear of war...
of scaring them.
knuckles holding a pink sadness,
a vulnerability,
introduced to me on a red night in november.
a clenched fist sang as it rammed its sorry skin into cement.
sea foam scrubs holding me to the ground,
restraint.
a jail cell made up of kind words and soft hands.

i'm sorry.