Skin Road

The scar is a line I almost forgot,

a white jagged path etched in freckled skin.

I found it in sudsy light,

washing dishes slow enough to feel.

A bike crash on a summer afternoon —

the sharp taste of gravel

and the sudden heat of scraped flesh.

It puckers like old paper,

a map folded too many times,

forgotten in drawers,

a story without words.

Touch it, and the past ripples,

a sting that won’t fully heal,

a road marked not for travel,

but for remembering.