I trace my fingers across my thighs,
Across the tiny slivers of broken lines in my skin
That have left gaping crevices in my memory,
And on my heart.

As my fingers wander,
Travelling from one side to another,
The pale and jagged lines become darker,
Bruised, red, deeper,
Reflecting the pain that I had been burying beneath the sand for so long,
Protecting it from the warmth of the sun,
Hoping it would wither but in fact thrived on the darkness.

This is not what I want.
This is not what I chose.
This is not who I am.

Time will be the antidote,
The ointment that will soothe the aches and pains,
Heal the fears and insecurities that I have locked away in my head,
The medicine that I crave for.

And as time passes I will watch the bruising fade,
I will watch the red turn to a delicate pink shade,
I will watch the haunting depths of my pain rise and dissolve,
Into thin air.

To be willing to heal is to be strong,  **but to be strong you need have the courage.