Painful Memories.

SCARS

Blemishes are just evidence of perseverance, the confirmation that I did not quit.

I did not die, my existence is still here I am still high.

These scars did not knock me down. They are just reminders of my pride. Reminders of my vanity.

Why do I care so much about appearance?

Insanity creeps in I just want them to disappear.

I just want to remember what I looked like before I had the fear.

Of stripping my clothes off and being bare.

Is it so bad to want to be flawless?

To want to mask the imperfections of my mind?

To cover the real demons that sleep with me at night?

To roll over and hide the tears on my pillow sheets from the wounds I received from my lover’s knives?

Is it too much to want to be flawless?

To want to have a pure spirit and never be cautious.

To be too scared to be honest.

To be too scared to rip the bandage off and show the world whats really underneath.

Or should I stay modest?

Should I stay clothed?

Should I keep my scars hidden to protect my soul?

My scabs have not healed I just keep pealing and pealing and it keeps bleeding and bleeding, the beatings, the bullet holes, the gashes never heal.

What is true healing?

How can I befriend my imperfections and feel okay with the proof that I made it.

The scars are my memorial.

The tombstone of my past.

I revisit them daily and place my flowers and say thank you.

Thank you for reminding me of my strength.