She calls them her battle scars;
Across her thighs and wrists are her beautiful memoirs.

They are cursive curly,
Chicken scratched,
And illegible.
Impossible for the world to read.

They are her greatest secrets--
She wouldn't dare tell a soul.

She cries in the night,
Slowly rocking herself.
Her pillow is damp with memories flooding back.

She screams in agony;
How could she ever forget?

Her battle is still waging,
Her wounds grow each day,
No matter how many silent prayers she prays.

The scars are torn open,
Ripped bleeding, and
Gasping for air.
They never go away

She is a soldier,
Fighting for her life.

And the battle is still waging--
Every single day.