An Ode

Ode to Scars

 

To a scar—a puffy red memory

drawn across the body.

A moment fading—faded,

but never forgotten.

Signaling the passage of time,

these smooth lines speak

to the past:

the healing of wounds

burns and bites,

accidents and intentions

both good and bad.

 

To that time—you learned that

life is worth living

though sometimes it cuts you,

though once in a while stabs you,

deep, so deep that stiches are the only

way to put you back together.

 

To that time—you fell.

Because you wanted to climb high

and refused to listen

to wisdom—and your trembling hands

telling you, No!

But, you had something to prove.

 

To that time—you were a miracle.

Like everyone else

with a hole dug out

or, a little button

on their belly,

reminding you—

we’re all born the same.

 

To my scar—stretching

the span of my stomach

like I was gutted.

I was. Every pound cut away

with a sharp sword

that sunk in and split me

into two people.

Self-starved and

Binge then purge.

 

To healing—to puffy red memories

and only memories.

To scars.

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