Skin Story

In the restroom mirror's glare,

fluorescent light,

my arm, suddenly bare,

a faint blue blight.

That faded script,

a name not spoken

for years, softly ripped

from a vow, now broken.

It looked like a bruise,

not a choice, not mine.

Just something to lose,

a tired, old sign.

But then the angle shifts,

and the scar beside it

catches light, lifts

the past, holds it.

And it's just skin,

a story written,

where memory begins,

and pain is bitten.