My scars have roots in other people’s gardens.
They wind like clinging vines through space and time,
Invuln’rable to weedings or to pardons—
Each one the record of a loss or crime.
This one is where my trusting heart was broken.
This one is where I lost my innocence.
This one from words I never should have spoken.
This is the one that still—still—makes no sense.
And though the skin is dead, it’s still connected
To something in me that pain understands—
I shy away from what got me rejected;
I never reach for what once cut my hands—
Yet still I search for love that, like a seed,
Can grow through all those scars and make me bleed.
Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells