there.

Scars

He has them.
She has them.
The lines and dashes,
The jagged and smooth.
Even the road has them.
They mean stories and change,
Pain and growth.
Proof that we lived despite it all.
Proof that we lived at all.
We hide them, we boast them.
Fresh and tender, dulled and numb.
Once or twice a year, or maybe
Everyday, we carefully cut
Them open to peer inside ourselves,
Seeing if we're whole again,
Only to stitch ourselves up yet again.
-January 14, 2009