Maybe

It’s a stain. Many stains, actually. It’s like being awash in a toxic rain whose drops leave mementos in places where they linger and kiss your body. But, kisses don’t always evoke happy memories, do they? Sometimes they fester, like open wounds, creating their own narratives of pain. 

Maybe it’s the mark of Cain. 

Maybe it’s a question begging to be asked but to which no answer seems enough. 

Maybe these are the flames from the bridges you’ve burnt.

Maybe it’s a consequence. Of failures and of longings. 

Maybe it’s a sign of what you’ve always known: you don’t belong. 

Or, maybe it’s just a stranger in the mirror.