I’ve got the ones

that don’t speak much anymore,

those old, faded scars

with sealed lips

from when I carved the world

when I seared it into my skin

—— the callous of my hands

from blisters of labor

give silence not laughter

they run away as the weeks go

but seldom say anything kindly

scattering wheresoever the ache

might take them

Neither does the mind-wound

chat with me quite like yesteryear

perhaps I’ve stopped talking back

or watching too close

as it paces about

maybe I just breathe

on the sidelines of the course

— though dear,

the scars of your heart

scream to me curses

they lunge into my eyes

spreading out like flames

surging about like lightning

saying plenty of what I’ve done

writing it on the walls of my being

carving it into my soul

searing my deeds into me

burying me alive

giving the pain a vocabulary

to tell me in scars,

in esoteric whispers

that I am my regret