Regret at what I have done and may probably continue to do, despite when I know it is wrong. But the mind - she cannot be silenced in ravings of madness; in silence, she lets the sorrow fall.
I spot the scars each time I dress,
Countless marks that reprimand,
I smooth the clothes over my legs,
Like a veil that separates
Truth and my petty lies.
I thought that they would have gone,
Those white and bulging, brown-
With-age scars, never healing;
Instead they are the trigger
To a memory much deeper.
I have dealt with inadequacy
With emotion; I used my temple
To disruption, all because I hated
Myself beyond a hatred for others
- For they, at least, were honourable.
And now I see what joy I had
In being part of a disillusioned sect.
Yet, I never will wear shorts.
They'll be there forever,
The marks to serve as another
Kind of punishment: shame and disappointment.
What I did - what I have done -
Will remain a part of me forever;
Here are my knives of night,
Those deeper incisions I approve of,
And there are the oxidised scars,
To show me that I was right,
Well, at the very time,
When I know it was so very wrong.
I take my time to undress,
Eyeing my desire to see scars removed;
I know something more
When they are gone:
I have more to be believed:
Those scars are deeper in my mind.