Scars
They are tangled and gnarled. They are hard and violent.
But they are mine.
They each tell a tale of pain, of crashing. Stories of gravel, of bicycles, of fights. Sharp corners, being dropped. Falling.
Each one. Like the burns on my arm. Forever to remind me of days long gone. Of how much I have changed since then. How those scars remain there. They grow along with me. They shrink upon themselves. Growing tight. Binding themselves onto me. Permanently.
So many. Each a different place, a different tear. A different pain. It makes me flawed. Makes me special. I am extraordinary!
My skinned knees. My cut elbows. My burned arm. They all make me who I am. I have torn myself open. I have met the ground with a sudden crash. I have jumped off fences, only to find myself in my own blood.
Each and every one. I can't remember each one separately. Or remember tears cried. But I can see them there still. Remarkable. Beautiful in a twisted way. From cat scratches, to burns, to cuts from sharp fences, to warts burned off . They are bearely visible now, but a long time ago, they were clear, and angry. Red with hatred.
I have scars on my heart. Everyone does. Misdoings, missed people, misconcemptions of people all hurt us. I have been wounded. Just as much as most other people. I wear my scarred heart on my sleeve. I don't want to be overly cynical. I refused to be so damaged. I don't want to be bittered, without being sweetened first. I want to live, and understand everything. Why? So, I can have a life much like a quilt. Different patterns sewn together. Every incident, every tear. Every smile, laugh, and dream. Unrealized or not. I want to be the essence of that. Different pieces to produce a bigger thing. I want to be that!
Stretch marks. Dark lines. Varicose veins. All given for the opportunity of a lifetime. I am a mother. I want to be there to kiss every boo boo away. I want to be there to wipe away every tear. I want to be there to hold onto him until he knows that each scar he gets is a prize. A prize of individuality. Of choices. Of memories.
I will be that bigger thing. One scar at a time. He will also be a quilt. Like you.
Like me.
But they are mine.
They each tell a tale of pain, of crashing. Stories of gravel, of bicycles, of fights. Sharp corners, being dropped. Falling.
Each one. Like the burns on my arm. Forever to remind me of days long gone. Of how much I have changed since then. How those scars remain there. They grow along with me. They shrink upon themselves. Growing tight. Binding themselves onto me. Permanently.
So many. Each a different place, a different tear. A different pain. It makes me flawed. Makes me special. I am extraordinary!
My skinned knees. My cut elbows. My burned arm. They all make me who I am. I have torn myself open. I have met the ground with a sudden crash. I have jumped off fences, only to find myself in my own blood.
Each and every one. I can't remember each one separately. Or remember tears cried. But I can see them there still. Remarkable. Beautiful in a twisted way. From cat scratches, to burns, to cuts from sharp fences, to warts burned off . They are bearely visible now, but a long time ago, they were clear, and angry. Red with hatred.
I have scars on my heart. Everyone does. Misdoings, missed people, misconcemptions of people all hurt us. I have been wounded. Just as much as most other people. I wear my scarred heart on my sleeve. I don't want to be overly cynical. I refused to be so damaged. I don't want to be bittered, without being sweetened first. I want to live, and understand everything. Why? So, I can have a life much like a quilt. Different patterns sewn together. Every incident, every tear. Every smile, laugh, and dream. Unrealized or not. I want to be the essence of that. Different pieces to produce a bigger thing. I want to be that!
Stretch marks. Dark lines. Varicose veins. All given for the opportunity of a lifetime. I am a mother. I want to be there to kiss every boo boo away. I want to be there to wipe away every tear. I want to be there to hold onto him until he knows that each scar he gets is a prize. A prize of individuality. Of choices. Of memories.
I will be that bigger thing. One scar at a time. He will also be a quilt. Like you.
Like me.
posted by The Devil at
1:30 PM
1 Comments:
I never thought of it as a quilt, but more of a map of where I've been. I guess I have a map and you have a quilt that may have some pee stains on it.
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