The History of the Wounded Healer

My arms bear a map of the path from invisible to insane. I've walked these roads for decades. I'm still exactly the same. I'm a four year old girl, with fourteen year old thoughts in a twenty-four year old body. My scars are a record of desperation and bad decisions. My skin makes the pages of a book I'd rather not read anymore. That little girl's keloid thoughts are spells that take me far away, but never anywhere pleasant. I still trace that Braille on days when I stumble into darkness. But, most days, I wear long sleeves and preach self-love to strangers.