scars

I study the scar
on the fleshy part
of my hand.

it's a quarter moon of white.

healed finally. it doesn't seem
that long ago
when I caught it on a nail.

the blood, crimson ribbons flowing
painting the walls,
the floor,
the violent yell.

like most traumatic things in our lives,
there is always
a little bit
that remains.

the scars of love lost.
never quite forgotten. life
is never
quite the same.