Scars are proof of a story. You’ve done something adventurous or exciting and “have the scar to prove it”. I’ve never had a surgery, never broken a bone, never sliced my finger open while chopping up onions and helping my mother cook, although I watched her do that. I have always been a very cautious child, never adventurous, never exciting, and I certainly have never had a scar to prove anything, unless we are talking emotional scars, then hey, I’ve got plenty of those to go around.
When asked to write about scars, I struggled, considering I literally have none to write about.
So this is me writing about having no scars.
I am a blank slate. Clean and Pure. My innocence drips off of my every word and every action. Each move I make, cautious. Each word I speak is a well thought out phrase, the tone just right as to not offend anyone around me. Never caused trouble, never tried. Never was angry enough to get in a fight....that’s a lie. Maybe I have been angry enough, once or twice, but cautious me held back.
Never bruised or beaten down, never cut or bled out. Never stained my clean white skin. Never had the chance. I’ve been holding back my entire life...maybe it is time to let go. Maybe it is time to face that injury in the face and say “I am not afraid of you” even if my eyes are so tightly closed that I give myself a headache. A scar is a way to tell a story. If so, then what’s my story?
