The first weekend of June we headed for the Como Zoo and Conservatory, in St. Paul. We went to see butterflies and flowers, which we did. But it isn't images of butterflies I keep seeing at night. Instead, it is a person I keep seeing.
She was thin,
much too thin...
Her face was older than her age,
Thin blond hair,
straight and shoulder length
Shorts and tank-top,
basic denim and pastels
Painted nails,
feet and hands a midnight blue
And scars.
On her right arm,
patterns and shapes,
On her left arm,
lines of various widths
Scars.
They burned into my eyes,
Like looking into bright lights
everywhere I looked
I saw her scars
I wanted to talk to her,
to ask her questions
Is it feeling too much
or feeling too little
That makes us want pain?
She was familiar,
this random stranger
With her scars
And I keep seeing her,
wondering about her
She will be alright,
I tell myself
Perfectionism gone awry?
Anger kept silent?
Pain beyond words?
Or simply scars...
Interesting poem about scars, about memory. No one is certain of the cause of cutting, but it appears to be a compulsion, an attempt to feel good in one's own skin, so to speak. The body/mind seems hostage to habit.
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