One-hundred and Fifty-five: Scars

There is a bruise on my thigh in the shape of a button;
a bubbly heart-shaped button with four little naked eyes.
If only all my scars were as cute.
My burns would be sweet raspberries, ripe with love.
My arms would be a woven tapestry of perseverance.
My lips would be a gentle curve of courage, an eternal kiss.

There is history in my scars. They are proof of pain,
a way to assuage the guilt of being so lucky,
having it so easy. Life has been good to me.
I have not.
There is pride in my scars. There was something to survive.
And I did.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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