I wear my scars with pride.
Except when I don’t.
In those moments,
I am my tattoos and my reason
And the false dichotomy of my being.

The pain of those past events.
Erased.
Or at least hidden from you.
Because you don’t know me.
And I don’t know enough about you to know if you’re safe.

But once we get rolling
My pride,
My ******* pride
Has me spilling my life all over this conversation.
Look at my scars!
I made it through.
Aren’t you impressed?

But as a young Stephen Crane would have said,
“Ah, I think there were braver deeds.”