Scarred
The wind is a scalpel tonight,
clean and cold and dry,
sharp enough
to pare me away from myself,
peeling layer after layer of
words and eyes and nervous smiles,
getting down to the business of
our accidental bodies
and the long dark pauses in conversation.
You are asking me about my scars,
stark and obvious on pale skin
made translucent by lantern light,
and I am telling you the things I tell
everyone else,
the glib remarks, the shrugged-off laughter.
Well, boy,
if I could lean into that wind
and let it cut me deeper,
I'd take another step outside this skin
and see myself
the way you're looking at me.
And I'd want to know
if you listened
to the things I haven't told you yet,
if you can already see through this gauze
to the scars that I'm still hiding,
half-closed wounds
that hold back my reaching
as I'm bleeding, analyzing
what you might say
if you knew.
Copyright (c) 2001
by Beth Kinderman. This is my original
work, so please respect it.