Scars and Ink and Love
I have tattoos and scars. My body: marred.
Two incisions: breastbone to pubic bone and hip to hip. Closed with hundreds of stitches and dozens of staples. Scars for days and decades to remind me: Life is short. Be Bold. Always.
I wear these scars with secret pride:
I survived. I survived.
And ink. I have it, too: Five that tell my story: Ocean. Survivor. Life is Beautiful. Flowers. Fairy.
And if you are lucky enough to to get to know me? You will see them. But only if you are lucky enough to get to know thevulnerablescaredscarredwoundedsurvivor that is me.
Only two, so far, to see those scars. To trace the crooked pink lines, with tender touch. Bumps and lines and crosshatch and flat and raised: lines that were stitches that held together flesh that was sliced open to reveal my innards.
Of my remains?
Thin pink and white lines. My scars. My wounds, healed. Myself: revealed.
But Only if you’re lucky.