I Bear the Scars

I bear the scars of my own ruination,
I conceal them behind laughter,
My hands gesticulating too fast,
Evidence of vulnerability blurred.

I bear the scars of becoming,
And of what became,
Dripping down pale limbs,
A warm psychotic rain.

I bear the scars of running,
Helter skelter through thorns,
Raging against hypodermic locust trees,
Entangled, ensnared and determined to be free.

I bear the scars of losing,
The dirt of the floor,
The excrement of the alley,
The ashes of Hell.

I bear the scars of whipping,
White hot and searing,
Across fractured body and mind,
Never quite able to escape the blows.

I bear the scars,
Both self-inflicted and delivered by maniacal hands,
A ragged cloth of raised, slithering sutures,
Long since removed.

I bear the scars,
I inhabit the form within and beneath them,
I am their canvas,
They bear witness of survival.

I bear the scars,
Not the wounds,
Proof of the living,
Permanent tattoos of affirmation.

I can be damaged,
I can be hurt,
I can be scarred.
I cannot be broken.

Reviews

[Amanda Trerotola]

I can relate on many levels. You are a survivor!

[humbleServant]

I love this !!! Hope all is well with you!!

[John the Baptist]

This is a survivor's tale. While we don't get prettiness, we do get honest awareness. And I have never seen a more unique and telling image than "hypodermic locust trees." Well done.