Tonight I looked in the mirror, and saw that my scars had faded.
Not much, mind you, and certainly not forever,
But still, I mused, it was something.
Part of me mourned the loss of those pocks on me brought on by this pox on me,
The specter of a future revelation that never would have come anyway,
Of a vulnerability deeper and rawer than what I could put to words,
That would prompt (unrealistic) shock and tender (imaginary) comfort
From one who knew what they meant.
Most of me was glad, though,
Glad at least to no longer bleed and bleed and bleed,
Even as my fingers absentmindedly tore them open again,
Mechanically scouring my skin as routinely as a reaper
And as naturally as a pack of wolves.
I've tried stopping plenty of times, but I can feel the irregularities just as surely
On my body as in my mind,
And they won't rend themselves.
I think to ask my distant Mother as I step into Her flood,
But the question never gets past "How?" or "When?" or sometimes "Who?"--
I stopped bothering with "Why?" long ago.
I imagine that She regards my back,
Speckled as Hers in constellations of tissue and trauma,
But offers no counsel from the shining starlight I only dream of emitting.
She dispenses it in times of crisis, and this is not one of them.
I stand in Her flood, but I stand alone.
Tonight I looked in the mirror, and saw that my scars had faded.
But as I pulled on a bloodstained shirt--(they all are, by now)--
My unasked questions remained unanswered.