Faded, silvery lines.
Angry, reddened marks.
My fingers find them again and again, feeling along the paths I've memorized by touch alone.
I tell myself they are not ugly.
I'm starting to believe it.
These are not the places I am broken.
These are the places where I fell apart, and somehow, was put back together again.
They don't diminish me.
They do not make me less than.
I am intact.
I am strong, and persistent, and whole.
I wear visible records of my struggles.
Of my changes.
Of my victories.
I am a story, and I am not done yet.
YOU ARE READING
I Bleed Galaxies: An Ode To Battle Scars
PoetryPoetry. Prose. Bursts of thought. Stream of consciousness. Perfectly planned stories. Moments of pain, and moments of triumph. Utter isolation and all consuming celebration. My illnesses, my demons, myself. An attempt at mapping my mind. Cover by @B...
