Scars

The star in my back is

A scar

Nothing more

Same as the white slits that

Climb my limbs

Scars

Decisions made and moments of mistake

For others to see

And assume.

It’s not a compass,

Nor the North Star.

Actually, it may be both.

Meant to guide me home;

Not for your fingers to run over its ridges

Or to cherish as something a little rough

As we fuck.

Relics of something I’ve done

Been through, passed

Of something yet to come.

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