All of my scars have a story.
Some I can easily touch. Others I can only feel
below the surface. Some speak of epic yarns
of stubbornness and foolishness.

The wounds I feared most were delivered
by the most talented knife of all, love and loss,
seemingly immune to bandages.

I learned to patch them up with time. In this way
when they open again, as they do, it will be gentle
and they’ll not make such a spectacle.