Scars

My home has scars, scrapes and bruises left by the leeches.  I have painted over some of it, given her a new skin, but she will always know what lies beneath the Jamaican blue sea. Pieces of her have fallen off and can be glued back on, the gashes have been covered, hidden from view as long as the coffee table stays just so.  

At night I can hear her soft cries, the regret, the sadness turning bitter.  She longs for what could have been, a dying dream, no not just a dream, an alternate reality in which everyone was ready to give what she gave and nobody took just to take.

It is quiet here now.  I can hear the birds sing outside her windows.  The lights have stopped flickering and we huddle together, licking our wounds desperate to care.

photo by Hamed Esmail