Scars

Society tells us that our scars are a burden.

People claim we are ugly and hideous because of them. Scars are merely errors that corrupt and contaminate our composition. With each mark, our image is further defiled.

But there are more to scars than just being pests. I like to think that our scars embellish our image rather than tarnish it.

We all carry a lot of scars; each one painted across our bodies like a portrait. Every scar tells a unique story. They tell the story of a little girl who fell off her bike. They tell the story of a parent that fell out of a tree after their heroic efforts to rescue a child’s lost kite. They tell the story of a brawl between two boys that fought under the flag pole in grade school.

I carry a lot of scars. My scars detail my fallacies and failures; my trials and triumphs. They tell the story of a little girl that often tripped over her own feet. They tell the story of the times when I was able to get back up after a nasty fall. They harmoniously tell the thrilling tale of a warrior that can dust herself off and stand back up.