the scars within feel like

like braille made mute,

hiding from the the face

of my younger ghosts,

each echoing thin beneath

the callous,

like time standing still

for a moment or two

every time I catch breath,

and I'm chasing it all again,

trying to heal the mend,

aching to rebreak bone

in an attempt to taste my innocence,

but wounds that snake beneath sight,

are harder to heal,

and I become the firefly

that ruins the safety

of darkness,

with attempts.

to fly.

and my light,

looks like sins

against the moon.

there are scars under my skin

like an itch or a swelling bruise

pinching and dabbing until it bleeds

I secure my fears under the curve of my heart

they hide there, threading the burning light

wounds are made deep,

cut incrested with sharpest of blades...

those wounds are sneaky

and travel fast

reaching the tip of my battered soul

under the surface of a ticking bomb

that is my broken heart

filled with needles and pins

stuck there by the ones

that meant no harm

or so they made it seem...

my scars are weapons now

they hold me in place

they make me strong when

I want to be weak

my poker face is high quality

but even that eventually falls

showing the scars

that were meant to be unseen

so show me your scars, my friend

and I will show you mine

( https://youtu.be/yY57osd8JGU )

You found me, huddled in the filth behind a dumpster in an alley, sitting in my own blood, waiting to die. You wrapped my shivering form in a blanket, carried me to your car, and put me in the backseat. I sat there, unable to move, waiting for you to start screaming and yelling, following your words with blows.

It never came.

I remember you picking me up, carrying me into the huge building where even the scent of antiseptics couldn't mask the smell of death. I was placed on a stretcher, and you held my hand while nurses pushed me down various hallways.

You were there when I succumbed to the medication, and you were there when I surfaced, needles pricking my skin in a million places. You spoke so soft, it was hard to hear over the beeping and humming of machines.

"It'll be okay."

Except.

It wasn't.

Months slid away. I had surgery to put my jaw back where it belonged, a cast on my leg and one on my arm... Medication for pain, infections, parasites... A visit to the psychologist who didn't really understand what I'd been through.

You were there the entire time, promising, "You'll get better."

You only see the wounds inflicted on my body, my shell. These are the ones you treat, never dreaming that underneath this lacerated skin, my scars weave a tapestry of pain.

The tapestry that makes up the fiber of who I am.

You can hold me, rock me to sleep, smooth my hair back when I wake up from nightmares, you can give me medication. You can send me to the psychologist, you can give me a diary to write my feelings down in.

But in the end, the only thing that you can be is patient, and know that some scars are permament.

They say I’m one of the happiest people they know, but they don’t know how I am alone. They can’t see the scars because they are hidden.

They can’t see my frustrations, or my anxieties shine through. They can’t see how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep, or stayed lying in bed awake, afraid to close my eyes.

My physical and mental disabilities are invisible to others. They are hidden and ignored, not, healed.

Ignoring the hurt won’t heal, all that does is proves tolerance. Acknowledging the scars and the fresh wounds is one thing, knowing how to deal with them, now that’s another.

Scars never truly heal, they are there to remind us of how hard we have worked to get to where we are now.

Just because I don't cut myself,

Don't open my wrists with a blade.

Doesn't mean that I don't need some kind of beautiful escape.

Because although I laugh

and I dance and I smile,

I also have pain course through my blood for a while.

You cannot see my scars,

Bruises nor burns.

Because I find my escape in other ways.

Ways it doesn't have to hurt.

I lose myself.

In magic, with dragons and demons and beasts.

Fairies, that carry out miraculous feasts.

In love, with high schools and sweethearts and a race for the train.

A friend turned lover, and beautiful kisses in the rain.

In horror, with blood and gore and guts.

A running masked man, and a cabin in the woods.

I lose myself in the pages of stories these heroes called authors write.

I sink into magnificent world's each and every night.

But at some point...

As we all know.

Reality returns,

And the cracks again start to show.

churn blackened floods

force the tide

deliver bile and thorn!

for I shall hold in darkness

livid strength, a child of scorn

blood boils veins

thickens rage

bile and thorn a feast!

for I shall hold in darkness

pain betroths the unyielding beast

It's impossible to know

how it all began

Now that I can do nothing

but find footprints in sand-

If this is the end

I don't know where to start,

Without building up walls

to protect my heart

It all washes away

the wounds too, eventually

But, closing my eyes

this is still what I see:

That same frozen smile

holding pleasant suprise

As if life were a joke

and death, the punchline.

Afterwards, there was silence

and nothing felt real

For the scars you cannot see

are the hardest to heal.

the cuts are jagged and deep running all over my head,

making pale, pale white lines invisible to the eyes,

streaking my brain with cuts and gashes,

fear and paranoia leaking in through the holes,

creating nightmares that slip through to the day,

making walking monsters haunt my every breath,

twisted features with hollow eyes in the shadows,

creeping around every corner watching my every move,

taunting me at every move I make and word I say,

racking havoc in my house and my head,

making me doubt my every movement,

hidden from sight, making it out of people's minds,

outside I may be contempt and squared away, but inside my mind is a bloody mess