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I could feel wounds being picked at
Not intentionally or with malice
But not less painfully for that
That have not all stopped bleeding
Let alone begun to heal

I wonder if I will ever
Be free of them or
If I am too much stained with ink
Pressed into my fingers and palms by
Years of pounding at firmly bolted doors
In ivory walls
To ever be washed clean
If the tattoo needled into me is
Sunk too deep for any laser to burn it out
If I can ever be enough in the sun
After years inside
To tan my skin such that
The marks will fade

Geoffrey B. Elliott works in recovery in the Texas Hill Country. Some of what he writes appears at www.elliottrwi.com

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