The things I carry are far and wide. They scatter from the useless to the necessary, the pointless to the most meaningful. No matter the meaning or use, all the things I carry show a part of who I am and who I will become.
I carry with me an array of scars that will never fade. Scars that define who I’ve been and where I’ve gone. From my toes to my head, marks cover me with emotion. Some scars bring happiness and others bring guilt. I can look in the mirror to see one person and look at my scars to see another.
On my face all I can see is my scar. The scar that makes me giggle because it looks like a giraffe, but also causes a shiver down my back. I can still feel the hands on my back pushing, my piercing scream that shocked everyone, and the feeling of glass shards break my face. When I go back in time, squeezing my eyes shut, I try to see the face that pushed me and ran. I can never remember the face, it’s always a blur. I suppose that I’m glad I don’t hold that memory because I don’t want to carry hatred, just forgiveness.
My pale, long arms that seem to stretch for miles hold guilt. They hold memories of things that were once mine and the blade that once touched them. Each line, up and down, carries a moment I wasn’t quiet myself. I carry the letter of the boy I once loved. They carry old friends and old mistakes that I will never forgive myself for. In these scars I carry a burden of hatred for myself and memories I will never forget no matter how much makeup I put over them.
My legs can tell a story. Stories that can make you laugh and cry. The long list on my legs shows what I’ve done and what’s been taken away from me. The green color that stains my skin from all the years of dancing; the one thing I loved doing most, taken away from me. The little circle scars that were once pierced with needles, memorized with the words of the doctors; putting a scar on my heart. My foot covered with stitch marks, and the faint recollection of the bone that was there. The screws that hide under my skin that causes restriction and pain. The things I carry are far and wide — they remind me of where I’ve been and where I am capable of going.
