There’s a scar on my arm
raised above the rest.
It echoes past harm
by twinging when pressed.

Technically, it’s healed.
It stares back at me,
keeps my blood sealed
even when I wish it free.

It’ll mark me a coward
until I’m in the ground,
the worms have devoured,
and made me unbound.

It hurts all the same,
reminds me I bleed
and where to place blame
for this unmoored life I lead.

But it also reminds
of the fact: I survived
those I left behind
and the truth: I can still be revived.

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