I’m still standing here

with scars on my cheeks

and red dots on my hands

that scream when I touch 

the scabs

they have become - 

all too suddenly and all to quietly

I can hear myself 

thinking, becoming,

realizing the pain

that I had tortured myself with

because I wanted to believe it was real

so that the pain 

under my skin 

was a little less artificial - 

and now it’s over so I can loose myself again

in light words and silly simplicity

that stings like a scab 

once it’s peeled away.