You always see

when people trip and fall 

face first onto a knee,

The shear panic of a red warm pool. 

People crowd and care, 

Rushing to rescue. 

 

Drip, drip, drip,

The skin now stained

seeping from veins,

Pumping like a bad memory,

Fixated on the blood

people forget the scars,

Not the one oozing with puss

but the one deep-rooted, 

Crying out for attention

like a baby for its mother. 

The ones that can’t be seen

and are forgotten

until long after the scab has healed over, 

It’s the scars and bruises

that are up there, 

Attached to your brain 

like a bad dream,

Ticking away

back and forth screaming, 

abuse, 

trauma, 

PTSD,

depression 

and loneliness, 

Indenting and leaving the biggest scars and bruises, 

Yet the ones we hide the most, 

Is the ones we never seek, 

Like some fucked-up adult version of 

a kids hide-and-seek, 

For no blood must mean no pain

so we fall into this normality, 

We must hide it to be mentally sane, 

And grasp no bodies pity.

 

But these are the scars and brusies

that need the most love,

It doesn’t mean you are weak

just that you don’t always have to be tough.