there are three lines
on my right thigh
which trace the depth
of my pain.
they have healed now,
turned to white
slivers of what once
gaped in red.
I do not look at them;
it reminds me that
there are worse scars
on the inside.
the sort you don’t see
until you trip on
a knot of feeling, grown
to hide a hole.
I think I would rather
have a hundred scars
that I could see than
one I couldn’t –
but no. no. you see,
there is no scar
that can heal another
when it’s made.
