This poem was written a while ago and was hiding out in the archive, waiting for its rediscovery. I was actually looking for a work that contains the phrase “poisoned honey” but it must in another note book pushed further to the back of the cupboard.

Anyway, I found this one and read it again. I think it deserves to be set loose into the world. It is about damaged people and the ways of knowing our stories that we have.

Burn marks on memories
Their eyes are full 
as they stare at the wounds and scars. 
“You should really do something about that". 
They'll tut, the acid of their words 
Burning deeper into fragile flesh. 
“How bad does it hurt?” 
they ask prodding 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 my memories. 
Photo by Sebastian Voortman on Pexels.com

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