Ode To My Scars
Once, you were pink and puckered,
drawing surrounding flesh up tight
against you, you needy whores,
but you have since silvered and loosened,
releasing your neighboring hostages
and gracefully fading into the background,
as good scars should.
You had your purpose, knitting me whole
once more after some truly messed up
s**t would have rent me apart, bleeding,
but I can hold my own now, thank you.
You’re free to go,
though I know you won’t.
Some of you are my bosom buddies,
but the largest of you bisects my torso
into upper and lower halves,
a reminder of what I endured
to have my sons.
At least you have the decency to smile.