The scars are faint.
Keep me warm and they
won't show.
The cold draws purple lines across my
wrists and hands and
shoulder blades.
The past digs in its tiny
claws, injecting doubt
into vessels pulsing with
newborn hope.
A growing presence,
feeding off everything
I've ever wanted,
living just beneath my skin.
Maybe its time to let it
out again.
Watch it escape,
flushed out with
the crimson trickle
and tingling
familiarity.















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