Scars
I couldn’t say
what was wrong.
When the pain became too much
and I became numb,
I cut my flesh
to make the blood come.
It was a scream.
When I writhed
in pain
without sound,
The blood spoke for me.
The only witness.
I cloaked the gashes,
Hid the lines of hate and despair,
ashamed to be seen in them.
I wanted someone to read between them,
those lines I made
upon the tender places of my skin.
I found relief there.
There was no witness.
You thought you must be
what was wrong
A creature made in error
For who would molest or abandon
a child who is worthy of love?
The thought
burrowed deep into you
Your shallow slashes
Went deeper than flesh
The only voices
Without sound
We are their ancient echoes
We remember the pain for you
We offer hope
Can you see?
Of living the life you intended
We, the scars, are slices through time
Inception to pain to healing
The wizened ghosts of wrongs
inside
outside
can point the way home.
© Lori A. Shupp 2022
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I don’t think I’ve ever read a poem that spoke to me, all of me, as this poem did. This needs to go to a much bigger audience……..
Thank you
Each word is beautifully selected and the pain becomes real for the reader, as she realizes it is a scar speaking.