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.