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.
More from Edition 35
Ed 35: President’s Letter
Word by Noah Beckmann Another two months gone, another edition of Verse, and another President’s Letter. The issues surrounding COVID-19 and the …
I may be broken, yet I am still beautiful
Words by Leanne Windle Feature image by Vinica Teng Every morning I awake up with the feeling of hope. Hope that today will be …
Humans of UniSA: Nahum Gale
Interview by Jordan White Feature image by Georgia Ristivojevic Nahum Gale Bachelor of Journalism and Professional Writing, Bachelor of Arts (Creative Writing …