by Janet Hanna
I don’t want to talk about the bruises.
I don’t want to talk about the wounds.
I want to talk about the scar tissue,
the angry, dark red, thin lines
that go deep,
the ones that, in time, turn a soft pink,
as though the blood has thinned,
and the damage superficial.
I run my fingers across the scars
like an alcoholic caressing
the cool neck
of the dark bottle,
knowing the smooth, fleshy surface
is a blind ditch
for the truth.