They don't bleed now.
They're only scratches,
running perpendicular across,
the soul I once was.
They're nothing but marks,
of what I used to be,
and what I almost,
am.
They prove nothing,
and I prove them not,
because we don't fit,
anymore.
But if they reappear,
and slash my life,
to shreds that I can't,
piece together,
Would you consider them,
a part of me,
like they are,
a part of you?