Parsely, Sage, and Rosemary
They told me, all my young life:
Time heals all wounds --
and I assumed that they were right.
But what, I wonder,
heals the wounds
that Time inflicts?
I. It was dark, dark, dark:
power-outage dark, heat-wave dark,
shower-in-the dark.
There were lines along my legs, my arms, my chest
then unfamiliar to me.
Anxious, strange,
I had never felt so big,
or so small.
I felt Time carve scars into my skin.
II. I spent Time afraid.
Is it better to die than to live in fear?
We waited for change
hoped tomorrow would feel safe
lived and died for today, because maybe that was all the Time we had.
That week's Time carved
report-card scars
underneath our lungs.
III. They weren't perfect.
She was not a goddess
and he was not a superhero.
These truths were dull blades that could not cut
until Time applied friction.
I burned and I bled in the dim light of a streetlamp --
lost in the inconsistent Time of my heartbeat.
I am woven from threads of scars --
some are wounds healed over by Time
and some grow deeper by the second.
Must I always break apart to heal?
It won't get easier, they say,
but you'll think about it less
as Time goes by.