“Have you ever been hurt and the place tries to heal a bit,
and you just pull the scar off of it over and over again?”
It all begins with just a tiny scratch,
a tear no wider than a lash; so hard
to think that something small could ever hatch
a pain so deep your soul would form a scar,
protect itself from further harm, and grow
a callous that, with time, got thicker; dense
defense no verbal slight could overthrow.
And then when I extend my love, no sense
of this can penetrate this armament,
this balustrade, that only patience can
tear down, and thus provide my sentiment
a way. So thrust your fingers through the span
and pull and push and watch; the scar will fade
to nothing, less than that which did invade.