Scars

I have scars on the outside—you know—

ones that lie

on the skin,

ones that come

from enduring physical attacks:

like when I fell off of my bike

and scraped my knee;

like when surgeons cut me open

and repaired my body’s damaged tissues;

like when my razor slips

and my skin is nicked;

like when I intentionally tear my flesh

and release my blood

in order to release my anguish,

desperation abounding.

I also have scars on the inside—you know—

ones that lie

on the soul,

ones that come

from enduring emotional attacks:

like when you ogled me

and touched me without my consent;

like when you told me I wasn’t enough

and never would be;

like when I used those pills to numb this pain

over and over and over again;

like when I berate myself

and hate myself

and call myself each and every cruel name there is,

mercy nowhere to be found.

You may ask,

Which hurts more?

Some would say to you that

blood is the sign of true injury.

But as for me,

I say to you that

the sobs of heartache,

the wrinkled brow of anxiety,

the self destructive path of despair,

the fierce cruelty present when self esteem is absent

are the signs of true injury.

And, theirs are

the most difficult scars to earn.