The Joy of Being Scarred

He asked me about my scar.

I cried at the memory, 

as if it was a freshly inflicted wound.

I could recount history

but it’s no longer the truth,

if it ever was.

What I can’t explain

is the grief I still feel

not for what was lost

but what will never be.

How do you tell a new lover

about a past love 

who you shared a knife with,

willingly sliced yourself open for and because of?

He ran his thumb over the puckered skin,

pink from healing.

I didn’t know I had this wish

until I got what I didn’t ask for.

It’s brutal to say aloud

but how else do you set yourself free?

His love makes me

mourn.

Perhaps it’s one of the reasons 

I’ve chosen to submerge myself

in this relationship (my first since):

So I can attempt to see through the murkiness.

Yes, there is a part of me

that wishes it was the one who helped make this scar, instead.

It’s an impossibility now

yet my eyes water.

For every past

there is a future imagined

that will never happen.

Once there was enough blood for me

to understand I was bleeding

I put down the knife

and walked away.

The scar itches.

Sometimes I scratch it.

It is of me, but it is not me.

In time, it will be almost invisible –

fading into life.

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