they run their fingers
(gently)
over the ridges
that twine themselves
across your skin
(like vines, like thorns, like flowers)

knotted flesh-white
a map of hurt and near-misses
(if skin was canvas you could call it art, but it's not, it's not, it's not)
the pain is only a memory now
the driving pain, the unbearable pain, the relieving pain
(it was all just damage, wasn't it?)

they trace
the lines
of white
over and
over and
then they
press their
lips to
rough skin,
soft skin,
a smile
playing at
the corners
of their
mouth—

they tell you that they are proud
not of the scars criss-crossing your wrists
(and thighs, and shoulders, and hips, and)
they are proud that you have survived
that you are still alive
after life did its damndest to
bring
you
down

(after all that you've been through you can now be called a power)

they say, your past is not what you have become
they say, you have nothing to be ashamed of
they say, you are not your scars

h.f.m.