I grieve the loss of the little white lines
littering my arms and my thighs.
They go before i am ready for them to leave.
Like summer when life fades and
leaves stagger purposelessly.
These lines speak of what was, is, isn't,
could have, should have been, and never will be.
They tell of actions I shouldn't speak,
experiences i'll never repeat,
and memories I buried with the blade
just dull enough to keep me alive.
I no longer have to hide my arms or my thighs,
but then how do I justify the creation
of those little white lines?
When people and places change constantly,
I expected these always to stay.
