Scars

Like little ladders laid along the lengths of my arms.

Scars

My regrets incarnate

Permanent potrail of prepubescence adjustment; illustrations of a teen struggling with how she feels.

Scars perhaps made more lasting by their timing aligning with the surgery that would steal my right ovary instead of its purpose which was to heal an appendix gone bad that I then had to deal with, slowly bleeding inside of me until someone would diagnose it. That took 15 years it turned out.

I lament that my body must have been busy adjusting to that, rather than healing those wounds. So they sit forever, recent looking, as if they're new.

My body adapting to its lack of hormones as my brain was then tricked into thinking it was in menopause.

As if middle school wasnt cause enough for self destructive fauxpaws, I cut because it made sense of my pain.

My mental decline understandable but it was less permanent than the marks on my skin.

Nowadays I'm exteriorly judged within minutes of meeting me, the cuts cut me off from opportunity and make others uncomfortable while making me uncomfortable as a professional in the summertime because I’ll guaranteed be wearing long sleeves and ignoring the confused glances of all who pass me and those jokers who tease me.

Better than those when they notice my scars.

over a decade in my past but still a big part of how I'm viewed.

Regret doesn't cover it and thinking about it

Reminds me that I can't change what I've been through.