My wounds will heal with the first summer mist,
And the friends I left behind will call me a narcissist.
The damaged bridges will pull themselves together.
My reflection and I, we are birds of a feather.
The cracks in my memory will cease to be a story,
Only little interruptions, gaps in my inventory.
Sooner or later, I will find my stolen peace,
And the blade that I carry will kill this dark disease.
But today is not the day, I must carry the cross.
I must keep my eyes down while the others get lost.
My wounds will close under the last autumn rain.
New friends will treat me like I do not carry pain.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 