Skin has a way
of stifling
stories once
told loudly
through the megaphone
of dark red wounds.
Like one finger
raised to closed lips,
hush
it’s too scary
for the kids.
But ghosts don’t die,
their stories
faint white scars
that always stain your skin.
And I can’t forget
a time of fresh cuts
and the days before
you put them there.
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