Whittled Flesh Poem by Lorin Addy Garringer

I hold my heart in my hand
And stare
And count
The scared slashes.
Here's a scar,
And here, and here, and here,
And there.
And I can tell you
Their names.
Exquisite pain,
A driving force.
The restlessness that comes
With wanting something
You can't have.
My choice to sit
In the center of my pain
Or
Trail it behind me.
I have nothing to loose
That no one would call
Less than sane.
What I have to gain
Is
Yourself.