The Scar

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Abstract

egotiating a curb with my skateboard. The sharp gouge after skidding Where even now in the right light The divot below my left knee is revealed. But unlike that scar formed after The picking and prodding In moments of boredom, Sitting at the kitchen table in shorts. On hot summer days, Lifting the scab to reveal the fresh, pink flesh, So tender with pain, From the stroke or press of my finger. Over and over, until the tissue turned to scar. This scab will stay undisturbed.</p><p id="ea60">And now, unlike that child, Who knew no better than to leave some things alone, T

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hat the scar would be more troublesome than the wound, There will be no repetition. No peeling back of the hard crust. No exposure of the soft, new tissue to the light, Again, and again. This small insult of my judgment Will be left alone to heal. And I will look back at this morning And smile at this new divot of self-knowledge. And I will run my tongue across it, And taste it in my mind’s eye. And I will leave it to be revealed, Only in the proper light, At the proper time, With a smirk or with a proper smile And a longing for things yet to come.</p></article></body>

The Scar

A new scab had formed by this morning. Where yesterday there were tears Of bad judgment and over confidence, Today there is a hard spot. Not unlike the scab on the the girl I once was Poorly negotiating a curb with my skateboard. The sharp gouge after skidding Where even now in the right light The divot below my left knee is revealed. But unlike that scar formed after The picking and prodding In moments of boredom, Sitting at the kitchen table in shorts. On hot summer days, Lifting the scab to reveal the fresh, pink flesh, So tender with pain, From the stroke or press of my finger. Over and over, until the tissue turned to scar. This scab will stay undisturbed.

And now, unlike that child, Who knew no better than to leave some things alone, That the scar would be more troublesome than the wound, There will be no repetition. No peeling back of the hard crust. No exposure of the soft, new tissue to the light, Again, and again. This small insult of my judgment Will be left alone to heal. And I will look back at this morning And smile at this new divot of self-knowledge. And I will run my tongue across it, And taste it in my mind’s eye. And I will leave it to be revealed, Only in the proper light, At the proper time, With a smirk or with a proper smile And a longing for things yet to come.