Stitches loosen, an old wound’s blood seeps
The more they speak, the more air it reaps
I’m not alone- though I quickly feel far
Drifting from friends- not strangers to my scars
Familiar alienation numbs me from feeling the present
Instead: scorned, exiled, and irrationally adolescent
Years of picking my scabs and them never sealing
Beginning to think there’s no point in them healing
Was hoping time gave you some perspective
I guess for some, maturity is selective
Good to know that if I’m ever thrown stones
You'll ask why before checking on my bones
Brushed back under the rug it goes
More comfortable for everyone, I suppose
