A long time ago
someone told me that
the way a person scars
says a lot about who they are.
All due respect,
but I could not disagree more.

Some scars are raised,
tiny little mountains and valleys and mountains
that read like a novel in Braille:
here is where the training wheels came off
and knees french kissed asphalt,
here is where shaving legs got a little careless,
here is where the night was too difficult to get through.
Do not be fooled.
Having raised scars
does not make you more of a person,
does not make you wiser,
does not make you poetry, magic, beautiful.
You are still you with or without these scars.

Some scars are sunken,
crevices to hide your secrets.
These scars do not sing
but rather cocoon around your pain
out of shame.
Despite the indentation in your skin,
you must not be misled:
being scarred does not make you less of a person.
Doesn’t make you less brave
or less worthy of love or of anything,
doesn’t make you any less strong.
All it means is that you were hurt once
and your body fought,
and sometimes you lose a few skin cells
when you are wrestling demons
back into prison cells,
but you are still you with or without these scars,
so don’t sell yourself short, kid.
Chin up and smile, okay?

Some scars are paler than you are,
the way a whiteboard is a brighter white
when you wipe answers away,
the marker paradoxically removing
any trace of writing,
leaving a ghost
where letters used to spell out
h e a r t a c h e.
These scars are barely detectable
and are so easy to hide
with the right combination
of makeup
and it-was-the-cat.
But you will know the truth.
Just because the past is trying to erase itself,
does not mean you should forget.
Your story is colorful
even if your scars aren’t,
and the history omitted from textbooks
is sometimes the most important history
to remember.
But it’s your choice:
you are still you with or without these scars.

Some scars are hyperpigmented,
ugly colors sponge-painted to an unwilling canvas.
These scars will not heal
no matter how long it’s been since the hurt,
and they are not easily hidden.
No matter how noticeable they are, though,
they are not the lines your life is written on.
You are brighter than the crimson
that is like a stamp from hell on your passport,
crying “yes, yes I’ve been there.”
You do not have to go back ever again.
You do not need your scars to be interesting;
you are still you with or without these scars.
You do not need the light
reflecting off droplets of blood
to shine
because you do that on your own.

Scars are just your body trying to heal itself.
They are not you,
and you are sure as hell not your scars.