We hide them behind clothes and I’m fines and thick makeup.
We hide them by biting our lips and looking the other way.
By trying forget about them and pushing them deep down.
Deep inside the pit that we don’t let anyone down in.
We hide and cry and ask why we were given these ugly scars.
But in the dark of the night we run our fingers over them.
We remember the pain,
the anguish that those scars bring us.
We let those scars consume us and bring us even deeper into the night.
We think things we shouldn’t because of those scars,
We do things we shouldn’t because of those scars.
They consume us.
They make us believe that we will never heal.
They make us believe no one will ever understand.
The story deep inside those scars.
I look at my deep, deep scar.
How could I ever look at this hideous piece of flesh that used to be whole?
How could anyone ever see me as whole again?
How could I forget how ugly this world is?
How could I forget that my best friend saw the ugliness of this world and it consumed her?
That she took a revolver to end her pain?
How could I forget that my life was ripped in shreds?
Scattered and broken and left open.
I look at my scars and they don’t tell me that I’m hurt anymore.
I’m not sure when I saw the change take place.
I’m not sure when the scars became beautiful to me.
I’m not sure when it was that I started to look at them and smile.
My scars don’t tell me that something hurt me.
They tell me that something healed me.
That God heals.
Others look at my scars and they don’t see the grotesque and raw story behind them.
They see hope.
They see a truth behind them.
My scars are my lighthouse.
The treasure that my scars hold is beyond me.
I’m just another tired, exhausted, messed up woman who wears them and has chosen to not hide them anymore.
I lost myself in the darkness somehow.
But chose to not stay there.
I chose to find the treasure in my scars.