I wear my scars
like medals,
like old songs written into my skin.
Each one tells a story —
not of defeat,
but of a woman
who would not stay down.
There is the scar
shaped like loneliness —
the nights I cried out
into a dark that didn’t answer,
and kept breathing anyway.
There is the scar
shaped like silence —
the times I swallowed my truth
because the world
told me it was too much,
and still,
my soul sang beneath it all.
There is the scar
shaped like betrayal —
trust torn from my hands
like fragile paper,
yet I learned to rebuild,
stronger,
wiser,
fiercer.
There is the scar
shaped like missing my girls —
a hollow that could have devoured me,
but instead made me
softer,
deeper,
wider in love
than I ever knew possible.
There are the invisible scars —
the ones you can’t see,
carved into my mind
by battles with storms
no one else could feel.
And yet here I stand —
whole,
scarred,
sacred.
I no longer hide them.
I no longer ache to erase them.
They are my proof:
I lived.
I fought.
I endured.
I became.
My scars are the script of my survival,
the map of every road
I dared to crawl through,
the anthem of a woman
who refused to be silenced.
I honor them.
I bless them.
I carry them with pride,
like a warrior wears her armor
home from war.
Because I am not broken.
I am battle-forged.
And I am still — gloriously —here!
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