Everyone has scars, beautiful hypnotizing scars. They litter in our bodies like constellations, they change texture like mountains on the planet, dents on our skin that tell stories of our life.
Scars are not something to be ashamed or scared of. They decorate our physical appearance, make for wonderful and unique characteristics in each one of us. They are in a way like tales, tales that you read with your touch or sight, that navigate around your memory and being, immortalizing moments.
It feels like the only way to mark things on yourself is through the lines in your skin. The only way something truly happened is by what can be seen, touched or what can be heard; the witnesses around will validate your story, and the evidence is clear on yourself.
It's frustrating.
When something is not seen or heard by anyone but you, and not a single mark lingers on your being, how to tell it even happened? Does your sheer memory serve for enough proof? Who are you trying to convince?
After so much suffering and so many mistakes, there's nothing left behind; nothing that can confirm that it was real. And there's only you to blame, if it can be considered blame, the coward you. Through all of the slips and falls, all the angry lines and iron fists, all of the large nails and strong bites, the canvas remains white. It brings a sense of relief mixed with longing, so conflicting its often pushed aside.
Scars are nothing to be ashamed of, but there will always be curious eyes around you, and a permanent mark it's too visible, too obvious, like it demands attention. Attention is something you have never seek, not with this, not ever, in fact, you relish in the darkness, prefer that all your secrets and woes remain unknown.
But there's a strong longing, a strong feeling that intertwines with so much more is overwhelming. You want proof; you want there to be something that makes what happened real, that everything was not a dream or a lie, not an exaggeration, something that you can see and feel, reassurance that at the end of the day, it will heal and scar, just like that.
But you were always too much of a coward, not strong willed enough for the job, always too careful to let the cuts run deep, too conscious of what will be left, ashamed of your wants, and ultimately, scared of what those line mean, and no matter how many times you tried, none of them stayed.
Is curious, how opposite your own mind can be, how often the voices go so high and so loud they win over everything else, no matter how irrational it may be. And you blame yourself, every day, because if only you were brave enough, if only you weren't so stupid, so weak and gullible. You fall on the same trap, over and over again, like an addiction.
The nails and bite marks last for an hour, your skin only remains red for a day or two, the occasional wound fades away, where blood sprouts may last a month, and you are left immaculate, plain and unmarked, with only your memory to torment you.
Is it sane to long for such a thing? The understanding that comes with having been there, how miserable it feels, and the feeling that your experience is incomplete and unreal, a joke, nothing more than your brain playing tricks, together with the guilt and shame that comes with these longing; it's confusing and exhausting.
It's not right, it's not good, it's not normal and it's not rational, but the satisfaction and the relief that it brings every time your skin is painted in red, the overwhelming impulse and nagging voices that pushes you to, the numbness and clearness that comes, if only temporary, is so precious, even when it fades and you are only to be left with a void. A cycle that repeats itself.
Too careful to pollute your skin, too stupid to try.
Some day you may adorned your skin, and maybe you will fill your sky with stars; meaningful marks, those made with a clear head and a vision. When that day comes, you must remember how beautiful and unique these marks are, and that everything heals and fades eventually, even the pain and loneliness that are not seen. I hope for the day all of those feelings are not discharged on yourself, and that you may transform your canvas into a work of art, that you finally found that comfort, that belonging and peace on yourself, and you transform these scars into things worth of being seen, unashamed and confident on your story.
By: Domador de dragones/ BlackCat1550
