The Things We Carry

There is a scar on my back
That I’ve never seen
It hides from doctors and mirrors
And the eyes of curious lovers

Some days it is the tickle of a fly
Skipping up my spine
A not unpleasant tug of skin
The memory of a memory of pain

Some days it’s a jagged edged dagger
Plunged deep
Almost straight through

And I, feeling nostalgic,
Push into the heat
The memory of a memory of pain