I am battle-worn,
Scarred from my straight black hair
To my scuffed, dirty shoes.
And as I stretch the scar tissue in my hands
Reaching out to hold yours,
Fresh skin rushes out through my veins
Enveloping my flesh in a mask of strength.
The only scars I see are yours.
When we touch, our soul-tight cloaks
Rip apart; thunderous, and our scars
Strike out through our fingertips,
Devouring each other.
Criss-crossed blue ropes of half-healed pain
Encircle our hearts and throats.
Coughing weakly, we talk about our day.
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