For the love of scars

Where my skin is scarred

it was once soft and pink, new and bright

compared to the rest of me. 

A fresh concrete kiss

on my knee, surrounded by 

little love nibbles 

from crashing in the street.

It was an addictive intimacy 

buried in my fresh, innocent skin,

an intolerable itch to have the sidewalk

open it back up again. 

But it’s been ages since cinder felt my body

or tore through my clothes

and skin, hungry for blood or bone. 

What was once fresh or scabbed 

is but a ghost on my skin,

reminiscent of the love affair 

fueled by plummets and passion. 

A ghost, who in glorious fashion

emblematizes a once elusive strength

and parades pain like power. 

Darling, devour scabs

then make a spectacle of your scars

because they are you

and your love stories

your failures and glories. 

They make progress something to believe in.

They are where you wear your heart on your skin.

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