My Scars.

My scars

I wear them proudly on this exterior of mine that defines me to the world, feel the desiccation of the blood, resembles my pride.
This one? On my right arm or the one under my chin,
I love this one on my knee a permanent memory of my childhood restless soul diagnosed with attention disorder yes that's who I am, this scar resembles my psychological impairment
Or this one, passion deep passion of overwhelming love expressed in pain oh the pain which becomes absented by the stories behind each darkly pigmented line on my body-
I ware it proudly, a priceless piece of clothing that I was either gifted or gave myself valuable in it's own nature.
But there lies a scar fearful to recap it's story, avoiding the sympathy of others and the sympathy I would express to myself with tears and screams of agony and the question, the questions of why me..
No it's completely fine, humans are animals right? It's how we are treated for consequences we don't deserve to face, right? Blood is in us to be seeped out, to be revealed to the world to test the amount of emotions, scare, tolerance we are capable to uphold..
Right?? Am I wrong? Have you not been treated this way?

I know she has, but her scar is deeply hidden , where only she can see with a mirror or by the one who left it, just because, he had an excuse tho , his rage and cold heart and he was blinded.. She said, he .. He was intoxicated, she repeats.

Or maybe like her in this far deserted isolated area , a scar on the breast that fed her 6 children she has melanin so beautifully dispersed on her skin like chocolate but there a piece of her protrudes over the infant helping himself with breakfast, then with his excitement of being full he tugs on her sleeve exposing yet another scar that repeats itself , glistening under the sun , "intruders with horses in all white" she blames "intruders that were so fast and skilled with spreading pain" her fear blinded her during their visit she would never know who gave her such a mark but she's not complaining as others fell victims to scars that are taken with them to the heart of the earth, she is fortunate and shows her scars proudly.

Then lies the scars this man carrying his culture on his forehead, reflecting his manhood , he clinched to the bed as they placed the knife bit by bit on his skin but he knew, he will stand and people will respond with respect , respecting this new transition of life and honoring his ancestry.

Or maybe him, a believer of his faith, laying his forehead 17 times a day towards the north east direction , there lies a pigment right on the middle of his forehead, right between and above his eyes, "it took me 20 or a little more to get it to be this big", he says, I've never been so proud of such a scar , "I'm a slave to him (Allah) and this mark I have resembles the soul I slaved for him."

Then comes the woman with wisdom expressed all over her body from a line to another, wrinkles of desiccated skin and her cheeks are interrupted by streaks that looked to be from her standing still letting the claws of a cat scratch deeply into her once youthful face, but it was what resembled beauty where she was from, from an era of ignorance where marks and spaced and pain were the metaphors to courageous beauty, but she feels them proudly and tails the stories of her past.


This mark of his hers and mine defines so much of what we are, strength courage tolerance and pride.