some days you have to peel back some skin
just to be certain who you are.
the pretty face you put on for the world
can only disguise so much
and then the mystery starts bleeding through
the edges, those places that are frayed
and torn, held together with yellow cellophane
no longer necessary to hold that old wound
together, but a comfort of habit just the same.
lift it away and your scars are revealed,
white-edged and deeper than anyone can guess,
even you. smooth planes are only for
the innocent, the unscathed, the empty-handed.
it’s the skeleton that always tells the real
story, dancing alone in the closet like a fool.
at night i can hear the wind whistling
through all the cracks and patches
in my heart, and every so often
the sound finds a way to mimic
the cut of yesterday’s knife.
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