These holes aren’t holes; they’re openings.
As a watering can has on the lip of its mouth to allow the
water to pour out. An emotion of showers is a catharsis.

These scars aren’t scars; they’re colorful tattoos.
I choose which ones I want to fill in
with indelible ink. I wear them with pride.

These wrinkles aren’t wrinkles; they’re tracks
in the snow. I’m on a long journey, to where I don’t
know. But that’s the mystery and wonder of it all.