A part of a poem I wrote years and years ago for a friend.  Over seven years ago, in fact, and it became a poem on its own, and it’s still painfully true no matter how I wish it wasn’t.

But I’m working on making it less true.  I hope one day I’ll be able to look back on it and no longer feel like it’s anything more than just another scar.

Content warning: I don’t think there’s much in here that would warrant one, but let me know if I’m wrong about that.  Talking of scars, though.

She can speak of violence and death
and a thousand ways to inflict pain
She wears her scars proudly
as markings of battle
lessons learned harshly
and mercilessly
She can speak of violence and death
and a thousand ways to inflict pain:
how she would like to tear him to pieces
but she can’t ask him so very silently:
“Would you please hold me
because I’m so afraid?
Would you please
keep me company tonight?”

And she wears her scars proudly
saying: “It’s only pain, it will pass”
and: “They remind me of lessons and
things that should never be forgotten.”

The scars tell their stories
and whisper in her ears
and she knows deep inside
that most of them could have been avoided
if she would have sometimes accepted
the love and the help of her friends
but she would rather take the fall
all alone and keep the scars
than to call out and reach
for a hand that wasn’t
there for her

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