I used to whisper violent words to my scars,
I wonder if they listened,
I wonder if they believed me. , 2019


The blood red crevasses that slither up my torso
They dance along my sides, tauntingly
They move with my body, emulating my shapes, burrowing themselves deep down into the tissues of my skin

Claiming a home, taking mine

It has been easier to see the scar tissue,
easier to scream at the marks that continue to tear apart my skin
then to see my body as whole, as resilient, as strong

And It has been easier to blame my scars for taking away my home within my body than to acknowledge how I abandoned that home in search of a safer space

I forget what it means to be gentle with my body-
How to look at it with kind eyes
How to touch it with delicate hands
How to speak to it with soft words

I forgot that I could be soft and intimate with my skin, with my bones, and with my scars

That I could look at myself
Pieced together from the fractured limbs, torn skin, visible and invisible scars

And be able to mend, to heal, to breathe.
That I could be willing
To fail
To hurt
To cry
To forgive
To heal
To heal
To heal
And to survive.

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