scars have stories to tell.
some barely there, you can hardly even see them. like those times you touched the hot iron or miscut the onions. a little nick, a sliver of silver skin.
some, more apparent. from the time you fell off the bike and scraped your knee. from when you were so bereft, you scraped the first layer off your foot with your bare nails to distract yourself. from when you burnt a balloon as an experiment and the hot melting rubber took off a clean, round spot of epidermis.
some, more beautiful that the rest. from having given birth to the most annoying, most wonderful creations that can ever be.
some invisible. from the first time they let you down. and then the second. from when you learnt all your life lessons. like not to get too attached. that differences in priorities must be accepted. that being you comes with its own pitfalls. from when you forced yourself to expect less and settle for less and be less because that’s what they wanted you to be.
i am riddled with scars, each with a little tale attached.
like little tattoos marring my natural state, making me a little different from what my species was meant to be.
what stories can you tell?
