BY FIDELMA SAEVARU
Like words on a blank white page They stretch across my once clean pad Extending upward, sideways and in random arrays Some large, others so tiny you cannot trace Intersecting at certain junctions Avoiding corners and mere dead ends. Junctions of betrayal, Cross roads of pain, Drains of hurt, Potholes of depression. Scars, people call them. Like beauty described, skin deep are some. A bit of skin care and they are gone. Others cut deeper than the skin Taking more time to heal. Eventually, they vanish too. The deeper ones are hardest. They are usually the most painful. For them, size matters not. Depth outweighs all. Attention, time and money can never fully cure them. They are sleeping volcanoes Triggered by flashbacks Moved by experience Ones you can never fully erase. You don’t know me. I know you not. Your scars, my scars are a hidden agenda. Tread softly on my path, And I’ll try to on yours. Who knows? You may be the dagger. I possibly the Cat-o’nine-tails.