Five

Who knew,
five little parallel lines could mean so much...
You can interpret that however you like,
if you're optimistic,
it may be,
a music staff waiting to be dreamed on,
paper waiting for a poets tears,
a cutout of a flag you keep with pride.
But if you're me,
it's the marks of fingernails,
running down the blackboard;
a tear in the furniture from the night before you had to put it down;
of those scars lining your skin,
in perfect lines,
only varying when you cut longer, deeper,
or when your sobs shook you so much that they no longer stay straight perfect tallies,
so much that they can't be called lines anymore.
Who knew five lines, could change a life.