They scar us deep, those tracks.
Worn into our backs when we are young.
They don’t fade and change as seasons do.
They protrude from our rolling hills,
Like jagged angry escarpments.
Liable to slice the hand run gently,
over our otherwise smooth surface.
Under the leaf litter of time,
the slow growth of weed and bush,
one could mistake them for something else.
A ripple, a minor blemish on the surface.
But they run deep…cut into our souls.
The deflating word, the doubting voice,
The sharp slap across the face in moments
of fledgling defiance.
Only worn thinner in the grinding of the self,
Cut and polish away at your pieces,
Until the crack doesn’t show.