Parsely, Sage, and Rosemary

They told me, all my young life:

       Time heals all wounds --

and I assumed that they were right.

But what, I wonder,

heals the wounds

that Time inflicts?

I.  It was dark, dark, dark:

    power-outage dark, heat-wave dark,

    shower-in-the dark.

    There were lines along my legs, my arms, my chest

    then unfamiliar to me.

    Anxious, strange,

    I had never felt so big,

    or so small.

    I felt Time carve scars into my skin.

II.  I spent Time afraid.

     Is it better to die than to live in fear?

     We waited for change

      hoped tomorrow would feel safe

      lived and died for today, because maybe that was all the Time we had.

      That week's Time carved

      report-card scars

      underneath our lungs.

III.  They weren't perfect.

       She was not a goddess

       and he was not a superhero.

       These truths were dull blades that could not cut

       until Time applied friction.

       I burned and I bled in the dim light of a streetlamp --

       lost in the inconsistent Time of my heartbeat.

I am woven from threads of scars --

some are wounds healed over by Time

and some grow deeper by the second.

     Must I always break apart to heal?

It won't get easier, they say,

but you'll think about it less

as Time goes by.