Coat of scars

 

I walk on eggshell shards,

my barefoot heart

feels every severed

artery, every wound that cuts

a roadmap into me.

I wear a coat of scars.

Invisible fabric

that shows

every telltale mark,

Every pained movement, 

carves itself into my limbs.

 

I wear my hat of self-delusion,

my trophies of participation,

I wear my threadbare coat

of destitution. I cast no illusions,

no spark left in this worn old carcass,

just a wilted flower awaiting bulldozers

to smash the situation.

 

I am flat, frazzled and frayed.

I live in fear of being afraid,

and I speak with my voice

down by my feet,

so that, no matter how hard you listen

you can barely ever hear it squeak.

 

I walk with a limp expression of dismay,

I stagger in my cloak of storm cloud grey,

I smile, rarely, if ever,

and most definitely not at the light of day.

I glare at the mirror, and it stares into me

like I am the void

and emptiness is all he can see.

For I am just plodding through.

My dreams all seeped out of my head,

when hope left me wanting,

and I was left for dead.