If scars were words, she would have poetry scattered in clusters all over her body.
A small little girl once wore these scars with pride because it made her look strong.
Poems that rhymed across her legs said ‘see my knees, won’t you please, don’t you tease me now, I sting like bees!’
But one day she grew older and poetry slammed into her cheek written with embarrassing shame because some boy dropped her on accident and she didn’t feel pretty.
All the scars she wore became a little less easy to share and it was as if she had to keep it wrapped up,
Covered, locked, and sealed.
Some more visible and harder to dress,
some more internal she covered with the a smile at her best.
And then she grew older, and her belly expanded and scarred as if a tiger gnashed and snarled at it.
But the poetry produced was beautiful!
And slowly she began undressing herself and felt like that little child showing proudly the cuts.
Proud to wear her scars because they said,
‘Women, mother, healer, creator, seeker, lover, feeler, seer.”
And she shared her poems as they began to unravel and heal her.
Some poems, she laughed and delighted with play,
Where others she cried because the wounds would seep blood
The crimson bright reminders of battles long fought.
Each poem recited peeled each bandage with grace
Stringing together each cluster in one long sung masterpiece.