i have scars on my skin from where i used to play tic tac toe in my own blood. they are small and white, but i know they’re there. i have scars deep and pink from last october when everything seemed hopeless. everyone can see them. short bursts of self hate on my arm, long sighs of “just give up already” on my legs. i used to hide them. i used to cover every inch of my body in fabric and pray my sleeve would stay down. i used to wear bermuda shorts on the beach so my family wouldn’t know. i used to cloak myself in clothing and cry whenever i remembered why they were there. i don’t hide anymore, but i hide my reasons. i’m asked more often than i’d like to be asked where they came from, what was the cause? i push the answer away and wave it off like it’s no big thing. the scars are my friends. they just appeared one day. i don’t worry about them so much. the truth hides behind excuses and danced around words. i hated myself so much i had to hurt myself. i felt worthless so i wanted to bleed. at one time i felt everything would get better if i could only get deeper and cut away the bad parts of me, the parts that drove everyone i got close to away. the truth is, the bad parts are still there, but i’ve found some self control, some stable ground, and i keep going. but it gets me down when people ask how my scars came to be. it gets me upset with myself. the strangest part is that i hate them so much, i want to give myself more.
the other part of me wants to cover them with art. ink them over so they’ll show no more. show my pleas for a better life in a different way. both are permanent, so why not go with the beautiful option?
oh, but my scars are beautiful too.