And My Scars Have Murdered Moon

the scars within feel like

like braille made mute,

hiding from the the face

of my younger ghosts,

each echoing thin beneath

the callous,

like time standing still

for a moment or two

every time I catch breath,

and I'm chasing it all again,

trying to heal the mend,

aching to rebreak bone

in an attempt to taste my innocence,

but wounds that snake beneath sight,

are harder to heal,

and I become the firefly

that ruins the safety

of darkness,

with attempts.

to fly.

and my light,

looks like sins

against the moon.