little poems

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 cant 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

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

treasurer beneath my skin