Not Only Skin Deep

Not Only Skin Deep

I don’t know if change is possible
and I don’t know much about happiness,
but I think this is the closest I’ve been to either.
See, from where I’m lying
and the way my skin catches the sunlight
peeking through the blinds,
my scars are invisible.
I wish every moment was like this.
I’ve thrown away my old razors
and I’m sure they’ve grown rusty by now,
but I cannot promise that this new me
won’t crave new blades one day.
And I just wish these scars would fade.
I just wish these memories would fade.
I remember the sundress I was wearing
when the six-year-old me knew
I was born to explore
the forest behind my family’s suburban acre-lot.
I remember the polka dot pajamas I was wearing
the first night my mom didn’t come home,
and I remember crying at my window,
praying to see her mini-van drive down the street
on its way to our cul-de-sac.
I remember the cheerleading picture day,
begging her to help me fix my hair;
and I remember that she didn’t show up.
I remember realizing that the real world
was not soft and sweet,
but rough and rugged, with edges that cut
like those rusty razorblades.
And I remember that real world hurting me.
I don’t know if it ever stopped hurting me.