White scars,
that sit in in the skin;

the dip of the collarbone
the graze beneath the right middle knuckle
stains in the eye

(reflected moments
hidden beneath blinks)

sometimes, occasionally,
it prickles
and the more it is scrubbed
the deeper it digs

until it’s so embedded

it creeps into bone
and crouches there

writhing in blood
fused to the marrow

and then,

then you must break bones
if you want them out.

Posted in Louise, Poetry.


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