You cannot see the scars inside my soul
From wounds inflicted so long ago.
I cannot see them either.
But I often feel their ragged edges
Where the imperfections of faulty healing
Continue to irritate my waking and sleeping.
Each decade brings a new balm to bear,
a salve to try, a médecine de jour.
But I still cringe at the echo of epithets
Spoken in anger, that fell on a child's unwary heart.
The shards of unrepentant words ripped
Into my treasure chest of hopes
Where I had secured my belief in the future.
When original dreams bled out
I watered essential nerve ends with tears
And prepared for a clandestine
convalescence
That would take place
Behind a steadfast smile.
A Convalescence that I never
Suspected would last a lifetime.
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