And My Scars Have Murdered Moon
the scars within feel like
like braille made mute,
hiding from the the face
of my younger ghosts,
each echoing thin beneath
like time standing still
for a moment or two
every time I catch breath,
and I'm chasing it all again,
trying to heal the mend,
aching to rebreak bone
in an attempt to taste my innocence,
but wounds that snake beneath sight,
are harder to heal,
and I become the firefly
that ruins the safety
and my light,
looks like sins
against the moon.
there are scars under my skin
like an itch or a swelling bruise
pinching and dabbing until it bleeds
I secure my fears under the curve of my heart
they hide there, threading the burning light
wounds are made deep,
cut incrested with sharpest of blades...
those wounds are sneaky
and travel fast
reaching the tip of my battered soul
under the surface of a ticking bomb
that is my broken heart
filled with needles and pins
stuck there by the ones
that meant no harm
or so they made it seem...
my scars are weapons now
they hold me in place
they make me strong when
I want to be weak
my poker face is high quality
but even that eventually falls
showing the scars
that were meant to be unseen
so show me your scars, my friend
and I will show you mine
( https://youtu.be/yY57osd8JGU )
All my scars are on my front.
This is because
Whenever life grants me a scab
I pick until it bleeds.
Scratches are my favorite to deform;
using a fingernail,
I hook the edge of the protective crust
and carefully peel it off...
The dried brown line gives way to beading red.
Although I know it slows the heal,
I can't help but itch the scratch.
I had a deep scratch on my back.
It didn't itch,
Because I didn't see it.
The scab fell away in its own time...
Leaving scarless perfect skin.
They Don’t Go Away
You found me, huddled in the filth behind a dumpster in an alley, sitting in my own blood, waiting to die. You wrapped my shivering form in a blanket, carried me to your car, and put me in the backseat. I sat there, unable to move, waiting for you to start screaming and yelling, following your words with blows.
It never came.
I remember you picking me up, carrying me into the huge building where even the scent of antiseptics couldn't mask the smell of death. I was placed on a stretcher, and you held my hand while nurses pushed me down various hallways.
You were there when I succumbed to the medication, and you were there when I surfaced, needles pricking my skin in a million places. You spoke so soft, it was hard to hear over the beeping and humming of machines.
"It'll be okay."
Months slid away. I had surgery to put my jaw back where it belonged, a cast on my leg and one on my arm... Medication for pain, infections, parasites... A visit to the psychologist who didn't really understand what I'd been through.
You were there the entire time, promising, "You'll get better."
You only see the wounds inflicted on my body, my shell. These are the ones you treat, never dreaming that underneath this lacerated skin, my scars weave a tapestry of pain.
The tapestry that makes up the fiber of who I am.
You can hold me, rock me to sleep, smooth my hair back when I wake up from nightmares, you can give me medication. You can send me to the psychologist, you can give me a diary to write my feelings down in.
But in the end, the only thing that you can be is patient, and know that some scars are permament.
The scars you cannot see are the hardest to heal. But I find that they are the scars that force us to feel. For me, my feelings are a lesson to learn. Cause we don't run from the fire until we've been burned.
Patchwork hearts strung together from the tattered strings of broken dreams.
Daggers shaped as syllables stabbing your inner seams.
Porcelain exterior concealing the wounded soul that dwells beneath.
Pain covered by lips curled into a smile over perfect teeth.
They say I’m one of the happiest people they know, but they don’t know how I am alone. They can’t see the scars because they are hidden.
They can’t see my frustrations, or my anxieties shine through. They can’t see how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep, or stayed lying in bed awake, afraid to close my eyes.
My physical and mental disabilities are invisible to others. They are hidden and ignored, not, healed.
Ignoring the hurt won’t heal, all that does is proves tolerance. Acknowledging the scars and the fresh wounds is one thing, knowing how to deal with them, now that’s another.
Scars never truly heal, they are there to remind us of how hard we have worked to get to where we are now.
Just because I don't cut myself,
Don't open my wrists with a blade.
Doesn't mean that I don't need some kind of beautiful escape.
Because although I laugh
and I dance and I smile,
I also have pain course through my blood for a while.
You cannot see my scars,
Bruises nor burns.
Because I find my escape in other ways.
Ways it doesn't have to hurt.
I lose myself.
In magic, with dragons and demons and beasts.
Fairies, that carry out miraculous feasts.
In love, with high schools and sweethearts and a race for the train.
A friend turned lover, and beautiful kisses in the rain.
In horror, with blood and gore and guts.
A running masked man, and a cabin in the woods.
I lose myself in the pages of stories these heroes called authors write.
I sink into magnificent world's each and every night.
But at some point...
As we all know.
And the cracks again start to show.
the cuts are jagged and deep running all over my head,
making pale, pale white lines invisible to the eyes,
streaking my brain with cuts and gashes,
fear and paranoia leaking in through the holes,
creating nightmares that slip through to the day,
making walking monsters haunt my every breath,
twisted features with hollow eyes in the shadows,
creeping around every corner watching my every move,
taunting me at every move I make and word I say,
racking havoc in my house and my head,
making me doubt my every movement,
hidden from sight, making it out of people's minds,
outside I may be contempt and squared away, but inside my mind is a bloody mess
It's impossible to know
how it all began
Now that I can do nothing
but find footprints in sand-
If this is the end
I don't know where to start,
Without building up walls
to protect my heart
It all washes away
the wounds too, eventually
But, closing my eyes
this is still what I see:
That same frozen smile
holding pleasant suprise
As if life were a joke
and death, the punchline.
Afterwards, there was silence
and nothing felt real
For the scars you cannot see
are the hardest to heal.