Scars

My body is littered with imperfections, with self inflicted depictions of my internal suffering.

That boiled within my bones, burning me, suffocating me with it’s thick, heavy smoke.

My body is covered with the pain that rose to the surface and began to seep through my skin.

Crying crimson tears to replace the ones my eyes could no longer shead.

My body was vandalized by my demons.

They painted my wrists with the thoughts that plagued my mind.

Leaving me scarred.

And even after I soothed the burns, and chased away the beasts,

Their marks still remained.

Like  graffiti over a mural.

But I’ve come to accept my scars, for they show who I once was.

And though I am not proud of that,

I’m proud of who I’ve become.

My scars are a story, they’re proof that life gets better.

That even the deepest wounds heal in time.

And that’s something I will never be ashamed of