It isn’t easy, is it?
Hiding so many scars. They’re there, crawling all over me. Over and under my skin.
I’m grateful for the ones that hide themselves. In the downward curve of my lips and the creases and lines of my body.
But what do you do to hide the ones sprawled on your skin like strokes of paint?
I don’t like them. They’re beautiful. But I don’t love them like I love the birthmark that’s splattered on my arm. I don’t love them like I love the lines stretching on my skin. No, I don’t love them.
They’re reminders of my weakness, aren’t they? Too scared to push father, too scared to let go – brave enough to just drag it across.
And there blooms another scar, pink at first, like a rosebud. Red , later, spilling rubies. Purple, after a while, shining and cracking like a broken amethyst. Black , finally, like a scorched piece of wood.
And black they stay, refusing to dissolve into the brown of my skin. No, I do not like these scars.
But what else can I do? In moments of weakness, they blossom, becoming the orange pain to shine into the greyness of life. And then they fade to the black marks, making the greyness unbearable
So I pull my sleeves down, turn my hands away, hold my arms to my stomach…. It isn’t easy, hiding these scars. It isn’t easy bearing these scars. It isn’t easy carving these scars. But it isn’t easy to give up, either.
And so I go on.
Pulling my sleeves down.
Because what else can I do, really? What else can I do?