I trace these scars,
And remember the stories
Each one tells,
Whispering to me,
In pain and sorrow…
Telling me there
Was another time,
When my skin was
Smooth and unblemished…
But I do not remember….

I look at my hands,
And see these lines,
Like patterns of scrimshaw
Rudely drawn,
And they are beautiful
In the red hue,
And beautiful
When they turn white,
And raised
And the pain is gone,
But not the memory
Of how they came to be…

I look at these scars,
And trace their path,
That leads to my heart,
And remember the blood
That flowed,
And feel the pain no more,
Having let it drip,
In ruddy drops that
Stain my sink
Pink…

You come then,
And you are angry,
And run the water
So long
That steam fills
The room,
But cannot hide,
Cannot wash
The pain away...


It is the one thing,
You cannot control,
The one thing
You cannot share,
Something I do for me,
It was never about you,
But you will never see
The truth of what I do…

You say you do not understand,
That my choice is wrong,
But it never felt so right,
And I will do it again,
And again,
And you can not,
Will not,
Stop me…

So at night,
When you sleep,
I trace the scars and keep
The memory alive,
Of why,
I do this thing you abhor
And do not understand,
Being a man,
So brave,
So courageous,
So damn strong,
So your choices are
As right for you as
Mine are for me,
Though you have
Nothing to feel
In the dark,
Like me…