Stigmata

It’s hard to give up even now, I have to fight day and night at it. The promise that one day, someone,

attentive, would take note of my bloody palms and take my wrists gently in hand, hold them up and

examine my scars. They’d disapprove of course, but with that hint of pride that I endured. How noble. Never made a fuss.

But all that offers, the highest accolade I’m given to want is, a death with dignity.

If I am to be denied any say in the matter, If I am to be a man after all, I won’t have it all be suffering.

If I make it through this alive, don’t talk about my resilience or endurance, let it be hope, or passion or curiosity or even courage.

If we are to lionise scars, let me stare and weep for pride at those taken on to make your body a home.