Beautiful Scars

My scars speak first when I enter a room,

They arrive before words; before names; before bloom.

They tell of the nights I survived by my own breath,

Of bargains with silence; of dances with death.

They don’t cry aloud or ask to be seen,

They whisper of battles; of where I have been.

They murmur, “She’s fallen, she knows how it feels,

To kiss the hard ground and still learn how to heal.”

Some thin as the regrets I once carried with shame,

Some wide as the darkness that swallowed my name.

Each mark holds a truth my voice struggled to say,

Of choosing to live when it felt easier not to stay.

I used to grow smaller when eyes lingered long,

Afraid they’d read me and get me all wrong.

Now I let them stare, let the scars do their part,

They tell of my breaking, and more of my heart.

They say I was tested, bent close to the flame,

That pain tried to own me, but failed in its claim.

They speak of endurance, of strength softly worn,

Of a woman remade, not bitter—but born.

So when I speak now, it’s steady and true,

No need to explain what my scars already knew.

They’ve written my story in now silvered skin,

I lived; I stayed, and I’m still here—all in.

Wonderland Wanderess