Bleeding scars

Bleeding Scars

I carry a map on my skin

drawn in places no one can see,

each line a memory that still whispers

when the night gets quiet.

Ghost of old seasons,

echoes I learned to live with.

The past sits heavy on my shoulders,

a bag of stones I never set down.

Some days the weight is loud,

some days it just bleeds slow,

a quiet ache under my skin

These scars are not pretty stories yet.

They throb when I laugh too hard,

they ache when I love too close,

reminders that I survived something

I wish I’d never had to name.

I've traced them with shaking fingers,

wondering if they'll ever stop speaking.

But even bleeding things learn to breathe.

Even burdens can be laid down,

one small piece at a time.

And maybe one day these scars

won’t be open doors for the pain,

but proof that I made it through,

and that I’m still here.

Turning scars into stanzas

Writing hope between the lines

Spilling ink, spilling truth

Creating beauty from broken.

One day these open wounds

will be proof, not prisons.

Proof that I survived the fire.

Proof that I walked through the dark.

Proof that I’m still writing, even with trembling hands.

And if you see me bleeding on the page,

know it’s not to break.

It's not a cry to be saved.

It’s how I let the light in,

how I teach the dark

to heal,

how I turn my wounds into witness.