Scar Tissue

Scar Tissue

I weigh my heart twice a day,

feed it green tea every morning

and at night, a hot bath

to soak these solemn thoughts

in lavender and rose petals.

Light a candle

to satisfy its thirst with melting wax

until, drunk on hope,

together we collapse under a canopy of stars.

A night sky spun into a spider’s web;

catching my dreams and disturbing my sleep

with air so drenched in expectation

I forget to breathe.

I weigh my heart twice a day,

slice it open, a live dissection.

Locate the source of the heaviness just off centre,

in the space I saved to keep someone else happy

somewhere they never chose to stay.

Cicatrix

Cicatrix

It starts as an itch,

an idea in bits,

scratched

till the skin splits

and ink meets its match

in the bleeding that drips

a pattern onto the page

which sticks,

holding the nib

with firming grip

as the blood begins to buffer

the cut

clotting thick

till the meaning fits

and settles itself

as a scar,

starting at scarlet

to a shimmering blush

when the sparks rush

to the surface

with one sensitive touch,

and when the sensations

created

are all out of love,

its silver surface stays

as a statement

to be heard

for what happens

when the heart tries

to stop the writer’s words.