Medal of Honour.


Beaten.

Battered.

Bruised.

Blood-soaked.

Curled up into a foetal position in a dark corner. Tears. Pain. Anguish. A dagger to the heart that goes unwithdrawn for months. And you just sit there…wallowing through a pool of your own blood, the Lion King without his prized mane. Nothing but sorrow and self-pity for company for aeons and aeons…as the minutes to you stretch out into weeks and the weeks to you thin out into years. “It’s been so long,” she says, as she looks at you despondently. She hasn’t seen so much as a smile on your face for weeks. She cares for you, but longs for YOU to come back to her, come back from the shell you’ve withdrawn into with such tenderness and vulnerability.

Time, as they say, heals ALL wounds. Why would yours be an exception? The blood dries, the wounds scab over…and underneath this black yuck of a scab, you rejuvenate. All you needed was a little patience child…for this period of black yuck to pass. Isn’t the night darkest before the dawn?

The scab falls. Underneath, a shiny new layer of you. Yes you. Not old you. New you. You like you’ve never seen before. And underneath is a scar. A brilliant reminder of a pain gone by. Of a mistake, a downfall. Your moment of frailty and weakness. Lessons learnt but never to be forgotten.

Through the silence, they speak. Gashes, stabs, scrapes, burns…they all speak, with volumes higher and lower than decibels can account for. For in your silence, they tell your story. My story. In shouts. In whispers. In poetry and in song. To everyone who bothers to get a glimpse of these time capsules on the skin. Of how we have lived and how we have survived.


So no need to cover yourself up child. Wear your scars loud and proud, that others may learn, through the murmurs of your scars, how to live…and how to survive.

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