Just A Scratch

Wounds that you assume are hidden
as long as you never scream,
rags you collect from scraps of life
as the settle for tokens of scavenger days,
leaving their cuts upon the heart.

Wrapped tightly in the tourniquets
created by the mind
to keep the bleeding from being noticed
even though they strangle and summon agony,
faking a smile to cloak the pain,
though they leave droplets on the floor.

Muttering the words to mask the misery
because the bandages are easy to explain
than what cause the injuries.

Gluing on wings
rented from a sacred costume store
they help forget the darkness
where bare feet walked
into that alley of cut glass,

Playing doctor becomes a habit
far easier to play than telling the truth,
after all the slashes of mistakes will heal
and stub toes of indulgence shall mend,
but shame from self inflicted harm
is never easy to bandage.