Pain is beauty: The thick, swollen red line Runs jagged between my hip-bones To right beneath my belly button: Peeking out from under my Drawstring pants As my figure wavers In the fogged bathroom mirror reflection:
Beauty masks pain. I focus on a freckle above my midriff While my stomach heaves in and out- A testament that I'm still Here.
Life is concealment Of all the run ins with death That we are too humble to Praise With the same unabashed glory That we attribute to the very God- whose own son's hands Were marred with the scars Of a self righteousness That isn't felt in hospital recovery rooms.
Sensations are transitory- Leaving subtle marks upon our fragile Bodies, A reminder That death can never be beaten;
I trace my fingers across The rigged Scar- but I don't feel Anything- I don't feel the missing faulty pieces Of my body, Carefully extracted like a childhood Game of Operation: They didn't belong there, anymore.
Beauty has fallen (Down from the right hand of god) Into the arms of modern medicine, Adorned with sickly sweet lilies And medals of honor Pinned upon the breast Of anyone tragic enough To experience Life Without the security Of a timely exit.
I am whole because my experiences Are hidden beneath a functioning Exterior: My marred flesh burns against The heavy fabric draped over Last summer.
Experience is merely a fallacy For survival: My raised skin outlines A tragedy too human To pray about over the dinner table.