There's these scars that stripe across my body. Some are surgical, others self inflicted. Some are superficial, and yet others are battle-won.
I can't say I'm proud of all of them. I hate some, the ones that criss-cross my breasts, a memory of the disease that ravaged me.
My wrists, arms, legs, I clench my fists and regret the weakness that led me to them.
My forever-skinned knees take the child who hid in the closets and brings her to life.
I am a collection of white lines that have sewn me together and are attempts at ripping myself apart.
Aren't I a contradiction?
YOU ARE READING
Screams for the Soul
PoetryPoetry is the ledge that helps us latch onto reality. This is how I understand the world.
