There's a scar on my wrist
from trying to make toast
when I was eleven.

The tiniest, everyday thing
has stuck with me through the years -
a funny story to tell,
but a harsh lesson to learn.

Because it's those tiny, everyday things
that wear us away, and spell
out the end letter by letter.
It's a kiss missing off a text
or an hour spent at work instead of at home
that pushes us backwards one more step.

The cracks are not in flesh and bone
but in mind and soul. Inside,
we are riddled like roadmaps with signs
of decomposition. The scars shine
like flares when we're together.

And those scars
never fade.


A/N - perhaps when you saw "scars on my wrists" you thought of self-harm? That could be an interesting comparison to make, but it's accidental - I really do have a scar on my wrist from trying to make toast when I was eleven :)