Some scars glare. Split chin? Prat fall on acid.
Trippin’. Others I don’t show. Those half-healed

holes in my chest where nipples once rested?
I still keep my shirt on. Nothing revealed

but scabs peeled. I’m crafting a puckered grin
across my tum-tum, this beggar’s belly,

as if I’m trying to spill my guts. Skin
parts just like a zipper’s tug easily.

Again: skin you’ll never see. What is flesh
but a host of nerves that scream? A bit crude

but I’ve learned to live with it; I’ve cut my fat
and carved each nerve ending out. Nerves end; fresh

slices soothe. Not like you’ll soon see me nude
and ask: ha in hell did yee survive that?