Prior to Reading the Fish

The scars aren’t visible on my wrists,

or my face,

or my back

but they live somewhere else,

inside

the bile flowing through me is that of

every promise broken

which is every one made

those original, those in reparation

I live with a heart full of hope

crawl towards what may be my future

and the scars follow

red encroaching on the blank canvass

I assume

what came before

no matter what differences now exist

can only repeat itself

I am not worth this

because everybody leaves, don’t they?

(April 6th, 2008)