Life caresses open the scars; a more convenient time, one more ripe with regret. I ask, the strength of youth to return to my brittle bones. I’m a scarred warrior. Battle has bled me. Battle has ripped me wide and these stiffen, thick skin of regret tightening until every step is an agony.
What have you done to me?
I recall the face of the young child, unbattled, vibrant—a grin of eager success, unknowing of failure, of self doubt, of disappointment. She, she is the lovely one. The one I offered up on a platter of life.
What am I, now, but a shadow of the light I once beamed?
Yet you knew, and still you drew, the breath of me to you.
Take the soul, battered with defeat, rip it from my memory. Help me smile again. Let all glimpses of haughtiness I’ve found trickle from their deep homes, just so I can taste within, the cool refresh of innocent victory, that sees how you have guided my right hand. Sever this left handed heart, and leave me whole in purity.
Make all my life, an inconvenient time!
So never, ever, is the time ripe with awaiting regret. So I’m never bled open in battle again. So I may not fail the one who saw the young girl, who sees her still.