The burn on my hand is healing ok, still sore at times.
The following poem was inspired by the responses/comments I received when people saw my hand. Working on those phrases I went real dark, real fast…which seems to be my primary modus operandi.
New injury, old wounds
Their eyes are full
As they stare at the wounds and scars
“you should really do something about that”
They tut, the acid of their words
Burning deeper into fragile flesh.
“how bad does it hurt?”
They ask as they prod at a scab,
In the hope it will dislodge and will blood rise to the surface.
Turning my immune system against me
Is a cherished dream revealed as a twinkle in eyes
And a less than convincing furrowed brow.
“why do you do this to yourself?”
An innocent question posed by the guilty party.
As if I can stop their demons and mine
With the body they broke.
I can see my transformation happening,
The hardening into thick lizard skin,
I love the beauty of its protectiveness
and the way it repulses them.
I may not feel like me, but I don’t think I ever have .
I doubt many of us ever do.
The wounded and those who carry the hidden scars,
We know what I mean
When I say I can trace the terrain of where I’ve been
In the lines across my finger prints and burn marks on memories.
Angele Toomey Poetry 