Cuts

When I think of her I think of scars.

She told me when she touches them

they remind her of the cuts;

of how the cuts made her feel,

“It’s a purge,” she said,

“a sense of being real.”

She spoke to me with honesty

of the incremental cost

at destroying the things she had held so dear,

now unintentionally lost.

Of how, through her inner turmoil,

she could meet the girl she used to be,

and how, together, they kept their torment hidden

for their scars were not for all to see.

And behind closed eyes she holds the hand

of the child that hides within,

and they stow away from darkened skies

and the shadow of adult sin.

I imagined meeting her

on the euthymic stage

where we could dance around

the swings and swirls,

but faceless is the chosen way

for most of those concerned.

When I think of her I think of scars.

She told me when she touches them

they remind her of the cuts;

of how the cuts made her feel.

That tiny ounce of validity,

that sense of being real.

And now she waits patiently

for the fresh lines to heal

so she can once again, determinedly,

put to work the steel.

I imagine her voice as choral refrains

in chaotic discordant bars,

and every time I think of her

I always think of scars.