Fancy Dress

From a forthcoming collection of poetry

I don't want to be a writer anymore

I'm tired of picking at the scars

To find something underneath to write about.

Maybe I'll open a fancy dress shop

Hire out costumes so people can

Live out there dreams for an hour or two.

Other people appear to be

So much better at letting their scars heal

Than I.

Or so I thought.

Then I looked closer.

Everybody is in fancy dress already

Overalls, suits, masks, dyed hair, dyed faces.

Whatever anybody can find lying around in the street

They put it on to hide.

I can see their hands

At the end of their sleeves

But they're prosthetics

Their real hands are deep

Inside their costumes

Picking away at their own scars

Seems like everybody has their own

Fancy dress shop already.

A costume for every occasion.

Far better stocked than anything

I could ever provide.

I don't want to be a writer anymore

But there is no choice

Scar tissue or not.