I write my story
on my body
way point map
Each point marked
as I march
my trying
journey back.

Less bloody than
once carved
in strife
a picture of
my pain healed
not freshly felt,
or poorly fixed.

I chose, I choose,
inked a deeply thought.
This time it is
not frantic
or surgical precise.

Piece by piece
vast visions
are pierced
with blackness
as any can be.

Not the piercing
of horror visions,
talking soundness
into pieces,
not scalpel
healing little
but cutting faith
in slivers.

Filling in stories
Inked inspire lines
stamping my path
as I work on
taking up space.

Writing again-
of pain, not in,
meanings in multiple
not diagnoses
or stitches.

Itch layer shed,
to fresh new image,
not a festering rot
in my image of own,
or veritable breaks
stack toppling
layers in anguish

Each heals as I have
surface as stillness
smoothed soft by
quiet kindness
harnessed agony
as muse.

Here, all I can,
shaped as
I am,
shapes as
I shape

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