My mind is covered in scar tissue from too many years of pain, with wounds that keep reopening as the world shakes me and pulls at my hair.
Still, I look up and see beauty.
In the early morning, the light radiated with such brilliance that I felt certain I could glimpse heaven.
All I could do was absorb the moment and give thanks.
I’d endure 80 dark nights for a morning so bright.

-Rhia Clay

by Bloomy Ashes

my thoughts loud collapsing within one another
their edges blur, like smoke with no tether.
my mind fighting my entirety
each thought a blade, carving duality.

screams from within blocked by curves on my skin
my skin curves calm, but holds storms within.
i am fighting one i cannot win
a war unnamed, yet worn paper-thin.

my heart bleeds and aches
each beat a bruise that never breaks.
held together by wires dripping scarlet red
fraying threads sing of words unsaid—
and said.
even the words i said still slice my thread.

my mind and heart at war, my body caught in between
a hostage to storms I did not convene.
yet again, i feel so unseen
like i’m screaming in glass—shattering clean.

You wanna know what happened?
You see these scars?
Yeah, that’s me.
But you’re too scared to get close.
I can tell by the way your eyes flicker,
like you’re afraid I might break.
Spoiler alert:
I’m already broken.

They ask, “what’s happened?”
Like they want the story.
Like they care.

”Tried to take myself out.”
It’s not a sob story,
it’s a fact.
But they don’t get it,
don’t want to get it,
so I shrug it off,
say it casual,
like I'm talking about the weather.
Like I’m still not choking on the air in this room.

The other students?
They avoid me like I’m radioactive,
walk wide around my desk
like I’m a virus,
like my grief is something that can infect them.
And maybe it can,
but no one’s brave enough
to catch it.

Teachers?
They say, “are you okay?”
In that soft voice
like they’re trying to piece together
a jigsaw puzzle with no picture.
They look at me,
wait for me to cry,
wait for me to say something,
that makes it all make sense
but I’m not here for their comfort.
I just want them to stop acting like this is some mystery.
You can’t fix me with a question.

And my therapist?
Oh, she’s a real piece of work.
Digging, digging,
like there’s some treasure under all this rubble.
She keeps telling me,
”Let’s unpack that.”
Like I’m luggage.
Like I’m just some suitcase of sadness
that’ll be lighter if I open it up enough.
But it’s endless,
layers and layers of pain
and the more I peel back,
the more I realise
there’s no clean way to fix it.

I tell her what I think she wants to hear.
I say it,
because I’m tired of hearing myself say nothing.
But she’s not listening.
No one’s listening.

You wanna know what happened?
This is me.
This is what happened when you’re tired of waiting for someone to see you.
Tired of asking for help.
Tired of hoping the world will stop pretending you don’t exist.

Yeah, I tried.
Yeah, it didn’t work.
And that’s the punchline.
I’m still here.

But don’t worry.
You can keep avoiding me.
I don’t need your pity.
I don’t need your worried looks.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.

And I’ll keep saying that
until it feels true.
Until I can believe it for myself.
Or until I can’t anymore.

But for now?
For now, I’m just the girl
with the scars on her arms,
and I’m here.
And that’s the part
you can’t ignore.

Every scar has a story.
What will mine tell?
What will come of this
when I’m better, when I’m well?

I want my scar to tell
of how I’ve overcome,
of how I made it through,
of where I have come from.

I want my scar to whisper
about the pain I faced,
about this very hard time,
about the marathon I raced.

But mostly I want my scar
to speak of something greater
I want it to shout
about my living Creator.

Let my scar be evidence
that there is a loving Lord
who fought my scary battles
and on whose wings I soared.

Let my scar proclaim
that all things work for good,
that by myself I couldn’t
but with my God I could.

Let them take a look.
Let them peek and see.
My scar shows God is great.
It points to Him, not me.