When they speak of scars,
they speak of blades on skin,
of crimson blooms on pale wrists,
a desperate dance with pain.
They talk of wanting out,
of screaming without sound,
of trading inner storms
for momentary, shallow ground.
But when I think of scars,
I see a different map,
a terrain etched by whispers,
by betrayals, and the trap
of silence, swallowing whole
the things I couldn't bear.
Scars not made with metal,
but with absence and despair.
The trauma claws, a phantom limb,
still aching years gone by.
The pain, a constant echo,
in the corner of my eye.
Trust, a shattered vase,
glued back with shaky hands.
I question every kindness,
in shifting, sinking sands.
I fear to open up,
to speak my truth aloud,
convinced I am too much,
lost in a lonely crowd.
These scars, they tell a story
of a self I used to be,
before the weight of sorrow
pressed down, and buried me.
The lines upon my arms,
a fragile, fading script,
remind me of the battles
I fought, and almost slipped.
I sought to silence memories,
to drown them in the red,
to trade the gnawing inside
for hurt I could instead
control, contain, and bandage.
But the mind, it holds its own,
a graveyard of lost moments,
seeds of fear that have grown.
They speak of surface wounds,
of choices made in haste,
but rarely do they mention
the wounds that time can't erase.
The invisible afflictions,
the silent, screaming tears,
the battles fought within,
that linger through the years.
These are the scars I carry,
the ones that truly bind,
the heavy, haunting burdens
etched deep within my mind
