Some words cannot be
unwritten, not like socks
unsewn and raveled back
into a neat burgundy
ball, or Listerine
swashed and swished
back and forth
between dumb
porcelain studs.
Some words turn
into arrows once
they touch the air
and sink sharply,
deep and irrevocably
inside the chest.
The pain in erasing
a scar comes not
from the bleeding
but from the sound
of the memories
it contains.
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