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White Scars

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When I don’t remember who I am, because I have been stripped of everything I thought I was, I feel lost. I feel worthless and broken; because that is what I am to the world. To you, I am full of worth, broken, but fixable.
When I don’t remember who I am; You tell me who I am and what I used to be. Now there is a little light in my dark tunnel of self-doubt. It is just enough light to start the long, half-blind walk to the end of the tunnel.
When I don’t remember who I am; You show me the ground beneath my feet, covered in the pieces of myself. They are broken glass that cut my feet if I dare to remember what they were.
One by one You pick up each chard. You examine each one before handing them to me, putting together the puzzle of my soul. Some of the pieces of glass were smashed entirely. These pieces were so small and insignificant to even portray the puzzle’s picture. So You left them on the floor, so I wouldn’t forget what was left behind in the past.
I try to move forward through the tunnel, broken but put back together. I can’t take one more step; my feet are covered in cuts and sores. You clean the blood off my feet and put sandals on them.
So I finished the journey out of the dark, slowly and gingerly putting weight on my unhealed cuts. Each step hurts a little less. Finally I sat in the sun, and took the sandals off to examine my feet. Where the cuts once bled unceasingly, white scars now were. I touched these white streaks, forever marking my feet. No pain shot through me this time, but my fingertips grazed over the uncountable bumps, which were my raised scars; I finally remembered who I am.



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