Track Marks

Residue… left over from a past life done and gone. The habit is broken, but it’s story remains. Ingrained to the pieces of my soul and mimicked in my every encounter. I was a junkie, but I don’t get high anymore. I had a high tolerance for pain, but a low handle on the aftermath. So many memories, laced to impair. I’ve put down my poison, but how do I rub away these track marks…

I kind of like someone… but I’ve never seen contraband like this before. Call me a square, but I’m boxed in. I’m self-involved, absorbed in my precautions, surrounded by my fear, yet desiring a new experience.

My walls are up, but there’s a fence with a key. The “Do Not Enter” sign is hanging up by one corner. As my guard drops, so does my protective barrier. All that slants will soon fall down, and all that’s dormant, will bloom again. The closer he comes, the more apt I am to want to…

Track marks… In a haste to reserve myself, and the fear of standing there, bare and open, I halt my exposure and remain. I retract my key… but it dangles further from my hand with each encounter. Patience… The fear of the unknown leaves me tucked away, but yearning. I’m “Dreaming with a broken heart”, yet hoping he’s got the glue. Not to fix my parts, only I have the power, but to stick himself to me if he discovers that I’m his addiction.

My wounds used to be deep, but are steadily rising to the surface. I have patches of hurt but they don’t cover my quilt. My confusion, paints illusions but every girl needs mystery. It’s not that hard to figure out what I desire… pay attention to what you don’t see.

© A. L. Lewis