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Hidden Scars


Scars don't always leave a mark. 
Maybe it would be easier if they did. 

Maybe if every mark he left 
blazed his name on your skin - 
the shame would no longer be yours.  
Maybe people would see the damage 
he caused and turn toward him 
and put him down like a rabid dog. 
No one blames someone with a 
vicious bite from a rabid dog.
They just. Put down. The dog.
Maybe if every cruel word he flung at you - 
aimed to sink into your flesh like knives, 
to undermine your self-confidence, 
maybe if all those cruel words stayed 
on your skin in his handwriting 
people would see what he really was like, 
away from the crowd. 
He would no longer get sympathy and praise, 
but scorn and rejection.  Maybe YOU would finally get the sympathy, 
and support, 
and understanding. 
(Yeah, I know, probably not, but maybe.)
His words sink into your flesh and 
seep into your blood to 
flow through your veins like acid. 
His marks sometimes show - 
sometimes you hide them with make-up--
sometimes you can't, but soon - maybe too soon --
they fade, and you're left to carry the burden all alone. 
You and your hidden scars.

[this poem is meant to go along with today's column - Both Barrels]


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