Poetry: scars of separation

Words by Tabitha Lean

Feature image by Oliver White

 

i wear the scars of separation 

on every surface of my skin,

buried deep within my pores

rests wells of devastation

and pools of desperation. 

there are well worn tracks of worry,

ridges of broken promises and 

shattered dreams so deep 

fear rests comfortably

in the ruts of melancholy. 

there are mountains built upon

my greatest torments

that cast the shadows

of doubts and discontent 

through the valleys of woe and

floods of sorrow threaten to

drown the anguish trapping trauma

in the grotto of my soul- 

treading along the trails of deprivation

seized by the throat and strangled by 

irritation, a body plagued with fury,

trapped by the grinding stress and 

caught in the continuous loop of 

problems and punishment. 

vulnerability cowers in the corner

burrowing into my heart, 

while negativity makes its

home in the furrows of my impatience, 

all the while animosity builds 

and fills the caves

with resentment, leading to

cycles of self-loathing that have

you choking on the venom of hatred

and antipathy, leading to self-harm…

and hatred manifests itself,

overwhelming and overtaking sense.  

there are caverns haunted by 

my woes and rimples of vexation 

dripping into puddles composed of dread, 

and swathes of trepidation vacate 

against rims of painful agitation,

overcome by the anticipation 

of danger. 

guilt hangs off my frame 

like a second skin, 

plastered by my shame.

upon these wrinkling seams of terror

sees thread through needle eye 

piercing skin, running train tracks

sealing bloody wounds-

for every scar there is a thin 

line of stitches where someone 

has fracked through my body’s armour

to repair the irreparable wound-

war wounds that only bleed to

remind me of the pain

of separation; the thieving of

time that can never be returned. 

even at the day’s end where the

earth in my bones returns to the ground,

where my ashes turn to dust

and my carbon meets compost

and I know days no more,

that long and lonely rest

the only reprieve from 

sleepless nights and pacing anger,

sweating stresses and itching worries,

even then I will not be healed,

even then I will not be whole,

even then I will not be free,

of the scars of separation. 

 

This piece was originally published in Edition 35 of Verse. View it in its original PDF form via ISSUU.

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