Old scars - traces

Seldomly surfacing like
winds on Mars, but
as certain as the mended skin,
a wound leaves a mark
and a mark, a reminder.

At times I am as made of clay,
I simply smooth the nicks away,
but now I have the splits of glass
when fingers reach they sprint to shatter,
then
shards align
and form a shield
like a hedgehog with unwanted guests.

I hide myself away from me
so when you visit me next
I'm lost to me, gone from you;
not smearing wounds with clay.