“I don’t want to die without my scars”
Scars always tell a story
A story of a fall from a bicycle,
Memories of how your mother’s touch healed.
All scars have a history,
Of wounds that were there,
Some of moments of dark and suffering.
My scars are born of hopelessness.
Of days when my mind ruled over my heart
Each line I carved had a darker recollection, It was an echo of anguish
For each were fabricated by pain that was too difficult to bear.
These scars, some fresh and some old
Recounts the horrors of days
When my heart was broken and it ached
That it felt easier to take up the blade.
I let Pain regain control
Only this was in flesh, because no one could see
My heart’s affliction, my heart’s misery.
Each cut has since grown deeper,
Sharper objects fascinating me.
In those moment,
I let the sting take me to places
It oppressed my heart’s ache, (wasn’t that what I needed?)
And yet, somewhere, these fleshly wounds were not enough
As I desired for more blood.
When those dark moments passed
And, what plagued me became a blemish
It became an ugly mark that drew attention from the world!
I hide, feel uncomfortable and shy away
Struggling with words to explain
But I know the truth, those scars have a story to tell
That no one could grasp or feel.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Why do you seek attention?’
‘What is wrong with you?’
Surrounded by whispers and judgements
I cower from the world
Knowing what they will never know
The demons that breathed within.
‘Don’t judge me’
‘Try and hear me out’
For all I scream, I know that
They will never see.
‘People have gone through worse’
‘Why did you do that?’
With time the physical pain has receded
But, wounds inflicted in the heart, they never stopped hurting.
I have accepted now,
I don’t abide by the rules of the ‘normal’
I have built walls impenetrable — for sustenance.
This broken me is who I am,
For these scars are just ‘treasure maps’ that makes me whole
For these scars remind me, they lessen the burden on my soul.
I no longer hear their sneers,
I no longer wait for them to fade,
It’s supposed to be a reminder
That this imperfection is me.