Scars. Poem by Emily Parker

See this?
These bangles I wear on my wrist.
Not loose, but tight,
As they cling and they twist.
Deep scarlet, at first;
I curse,
Until they fade silvery gold.
Like yours, with reason,
And memories and season,
Reminding is what they do best.
But yours are from partners, and husbands and lovers,
And mine are from when they had left.
Whilst yours are given from mothers on birthdays,
Mine are from days of their death.
For yours can be thrown,
Destroyed, loaned,
But mine are here till my last breath.