we speak of healing
as if we scraped a knee
that never scabbed
we carry on with life
sometimes a dull pain
we remember the injury
what if
we can’t find the wound
to stick with a bandaid
and whisper affirmations to
soak in tea, honey and
a stranger’s psychology degree
they say healing isn’t linear
what shape does mine take?
pentagon with straight sides
mass extracted from the heart
creature with soft eyes
and sharp teeth
a work of art
a work of art
my wound is not a shape
it is weights kept in my body
collecting stones
from paths not travelled
handed to me by lost loves
trophies for scars on the mind
treasured beneath my skin
little poems 