Seven ruler-straight
horizontal lines
Two solidly thicker
vertical lines connect
those to the
palm of my hand
And one in the shape
of a hot, bent, metal stick
almost hiding in my
arm's crease.
They look so soft now
but I remember when
each one of them was
ragged and ******
and I was crying out
for someone to help me.
I never left without my sweatshirt,
I tried to blame it on the cat
because I couldn't explain to anybody
my reasons for harming myself,
you can't just
describe your demons
that easily.

These scars are a map,
a storybook on my body
of the time I needed so badly
for somebody to hold me.
When nobody came with a rag
to soak up the blood I was
trying to get out of me
I realized that
I was either going to have to
learn to love myself
or let myself die right there.

I am happy to have these scars
for they mean that I chose the former,
escaped that dismal ending
I had chosen for myself.
They prove to me
that if I can come from the edge of death
to the person I am today
there's no reason
that I can't do anything else.