Scars

Each scar tells a story. Each one holds a lie. I fell when I was drunk, I tripped over my untied laces. Really, the scars hold more Than a story of a drunken night. Each one from a razor That cut just right. Now the skin is discolored, Scabbed, Tainted. From more than just the cut. It’s from the lies I told To cover them up. Even though I’ve stopped, My flesh still tells the story, Still holds the memories, Of the nights I felt so broken, Destroyed, Alone.