You tell me time heals all-
like I'm suddenly six years old again

swinging

and slipping
like I've merely skinned my knees,
as if your skin had only scratched the surface.

And while the trickling blood leaves
sanguine streams trailing down my shins
and while I'm waiting to be bettered by band-aids and bactine
I'm left wondering why
even after all this time
my "swinging" scars still make me cry.

And I'll open my mouth- just to try
to alert you that this is less than fine
but when my words are swallowed in a sorry little sigh
I'll surrender
and I'll start to sweep up the spilled milk seeping into the floor.