Looking At Me

Looking down to see the scars,
battle scars, some won, some lost.
The jagged line across the wrist
a battle of the soul – won or lost?
I can’t really be sure.
The quarter-sized scar in the thigh,
.45 caliber they said when they pulled it out.
“You’re damn lucky soldier, it’s only a flesh wound.”
How little they knew that it wounded much more.
We won that battle, so they tell me.
Years later, the battle still rages
and I am constantly on the losing side.
Many scars on hand and fingers
from little battles through time.
Fights with the wall, a window, a bottle.
Too many small fights to waste time on remembrance.
The counselor tells me that these are winner’s scars.
“You are here, alive, and well – you have won”
Looking at him, I laugh inside.
How little he knows about war – no one ever wins.
Some of us just survive, and eternally lose.
The scars inside are the most vicious looking.
Jagged, raw, ugly scars on my heart, my mind.
Those are the battle wounds most apparent to me.
I no longer see the outside marks, unless I try.
But forever feel the internal disfigurement.
How can I heal the scars of murder?
How can I heal the wounds of a liar?
How can the spirit ever soar with wings clipped
by my own refusal to forgive?
I sigh, and look at the scars of battle
Some won – leaving my body alive
others lost – leaving me in eternal death