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Sign Here, Please:
At 43 my body is a twisted wreckage of scar tissue.
Most of them are from people I know or knew.
Cigarette burns (many of them) ,
Knife slices,
A large cut left by a pair of scissors wielded by a crazy girl I dated,
Claw marks on my back, sex scars, another crazy girl with 'lee press on talons'.
My teeth were knocked out in a few fights (over women and heroin) .
I now wear dentures.
There is a one from being hit with a frying pan in the head
I don't care how funny it is in Looney Toons,
that shit HURT.. and bled like a virgin sacrifice.
There are the scars from childhood clumsiness
(Falling down stairs and the like)
I have a huge scar on my right thigh...
a blowtorch my dad used to teach me that men don't cry
(I still can't, it worked)
'Sex and pain form flesh identity' Burroughs wrote.
My body is an autograph book.
Many, many, people have signed it,
and I remember them all.
I also have tattoos and piercings,
I remember who did those as well but they lack the emotional honesty of the others.
A friend recently told me
'Nothing is more honest than a punch in the face'
I had to nod in agreement...
While I am covered in scars (many, many scars) .
I have to admit,
they are all honest.
Funny thing is, I wouldn't trade them,
they are stories,
they are my stories made flesh.
They are me
and the people who put them there,
they are also, in a very literal way, they are me as well.
poem
by
Brevet Wilson
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