have made small
scars
i have let the skin heal over
the tiny pieces now just bumps under the skin
they are reminders
of the friction
between
i wish it would be
in colour
at least i'm awake
in your vacant stare
at least i'll try to escape
even if i am to return
it is in my attempts to leave
that i resurrect my dignity
your wooden arms
left furniture
and help make him a home
your wooden arms
once held me warm
and now all i'd do
is take a match
to the lot
with no regard
with a scorned heart
and a bruised ego.
