We carry hesitation wounds around,
the duelling scars, the challenges we fought
and didn’t win, the glancing blows that caught
us unaware, felled us without a sound.
We didn’t only hesitate. We lost.
Wounds heal, but past mistakes ache on and on,
and cobweb you in dusty lines of pain
traced on your body every night again
as memory remakes whatever’s gone.
Experience is not a single cost.
I’ll show you mine if you will show me yours.
I’ll bend to kiss the scars upon your skin;
my lips and tongue will trace them, taste their cause,
and we who hesitate might have a win.