The marks of your childhood
Aren't only on crayon-colored walls
They're on your clothes
Papers
Trees
Skin
They're pasta sauce from Jacquie's house
They're grass stains from flag football
They're the holes from hopping fences
They're the notes you passed in class
They're the doodles you drew during family fights
They're the mash games on your math sheets
They're the scabs on a tree from a tree house once built
They're the burns on a branch from a tire swing's rope
They're the crush's initials carved into the trunk
They're the broken bones from falling out of trampolines
They're the bruises on your shins from scrambling up the stairs
They're the scars you got from going to battle
The marks of your childhood
Tell a story of who you are
They're everywhere
YOU ARE READING
My Unofficial Truths
PoetryI write poetry. So you're good? I didn't say that. I write poetry. So you can rhyme? I don't always. I write poetry. So you tell stories? Every time.
