You can say it in as many ways,
As it comes to your mind,
You can try to convince me otherwise,
But I have drawn a line.
Cross the line, I’ll tell you how it goes,
My answer, you’ll probably hate.
But scars run deep, criss-crossing,
Battle wounds which don’t completely heal.
You only see a slight raised line,
White and long —
But I feel the pain of the wound.
I remember how the scar came to be,
I know how I screamed inside,
Trying to be brave,
As the cut ran red with blood,
Gore and trauma, degradation.
A scar such as this doesn’t merely heal,
It can reappear and open-up,
A wound that flares with blood-red drops.
Underneath the skin is pink marble,
And you can see how deep it went,
Layers pealed back as I cried with pain.
It’s my scar on my body;
Apart of me for life.
A mark that lives on my skin and —
I have curves, I will not lie.
But my curves aren’t perfect creamy white,
Scars and nicks lie here and everywhere.
Disfigurement remaining there,
I’m imperfect and I’m flawed.
Don’t you know strength was born from such scars?
Curves are real and they reflect,
A body blessed with shape and allure.
But what I want you to notice,
When my skin is bare,
The scars angry red, left there.
For those scars are what will always be,
They are me, and I am them.
If you can accept them,
You can love me too,
For on my body they are silver and gold,
Worth what I’ve been through.
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.