I hide my scars to most people’s eyes
there is hidden scarring, but no longer do I own a combustible soul.
There are still marks on my skin from where I’ve flirted with death
and places where the devil’s phone number is burnt into me,
he said “call me when you want to discuss your options”
I have scars from trying to free myself from the stigma filled expectations
the imposed skin wrapped around me that silently cut off my blood supply.
I have scars that mark the places I have been violated
for every moment I have felt alone.
I have scars in the places between my fingers from where my father’s guidance
never resided, that absence shaped my fingers
yet those twisted members hold pens with more grace and passion
and grip my mother tighter.

I’ve got scars on the bottom of my feet
from walking through fire, through glass,
through coals, for people who never kissed my feet in return.

I have scars on the lines of my spine from where it had to regrow
after I had been made spineless.

Yet I grow stronger with these scars, the signs of my survival and weakness
the key to my compassion and empathy
the revealers of my soul.