YOUTH

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As a child I bruised my knees

On anything I could find

Stone, concrete, wood

They tore at my skin

Leaving a bloody mess for me to cry over

Salt stinging every scrape

And each time I’d blame myself

For being clumsy, stupid

But I was only four

Too young to understand that those cuts

Scrapes and bruises

Were designed just for me

That I should be grateful

To have the luxury of falling without consequence

For soon the years passed

Each strip taken off my flesh harder to replace

Every injury slower to heal

Until there was nothing left of me

Except bone and muscle