Scars

I should be grateful for the exhale,
but the colors I once saw have faded.

Grey to black and no in between, they
just slip through fingers so weary.

Dusty eyes look back at me and I
hardly recognize her anymore.

Everyone wants yellow, so bright and bubbly or maybe orange, such a cheery bedfellow…

All that I see is red like skin breaking and cracking at the seams. A slow drip… drip… drip… drip…
dripping from wrists like sinew, torn from bone wasting and withering. I wish it would hurry up already.

Some nights I go to sleep pondering. No, silently willing myself to just not wake up in the morning. Or at the very least, to not wake up with such a heavy feeling in my chest. The weight is too much to carry at times. Maybe I should have been an ant that can carry 10 or 50 times it’s own body mass, whatever obnoxious amount a quick google search deems correct.

But we aren’t talking physical weight are we? That would be so much easier.

I can cut my skin and the healing is palpable. The cells and tissue repair and reconnect, scab over and yes I’m left with a scar, but I can watch as the skin repairs itself and know with 100 percent certainty that it is healed. How do you know when you are healed emotionally? Is a person ever truly healed of mental and emotional trauma?

Is it just an ever changing, growing and evolving journey of ups and downs? I guess that’s the artistic spiritualistic way to look at it, some magical journey we are all on complete with crystals and moonbeams fashioned with hopes, dreams and meditation, so much meditation. I’m tired of walking. I’m tired of being a passenger watching shit go by day after fucking day with no end in sight.

I need to touch the pain inside, grasp it by the roots and see its scar.

***