Battle Scars

Scars, like lace etchings, a pattern Rippling indentations against porcelain skin, What is that? I ask her, never quite So humble as my heart when she pulls her arm Away, like a secret not ready to be opened, An ache not quite ready to be known By anyone who might criticize or judge, Anyone who might see the decorative design, The shape of clever lines, so foolishly sketched, Carved into delicate flesh with who could know… Whatever tools she must have used, a knife – Most likely a knife, yet it could have been something Smoother, like a razor blade… sharp and willing Against the tenderest flesh, the feeling bringing Release from a mind, unbending – a mind, pleading For the relief. The act of cutting bringing respite from the pain, The heartaches with their own stealthy blades, Cutting into the soft flesh of a heart, like stilettos Puncture the black earth, leaving hasty wounds, The bleeding earth never promises to settle, healing From the rupture the way weeping flesh, bleeds As she blinks back the tears… Seeing only the liberation, the freedom that comes From slicing through the surface of her skin, Exposing the inner demons that breathe easier When the wound has exposed her anguish, Leaving marks for the world to see, indications For you and me – inscriptions beckoning, whispering Into the silent night, erasing the throbbing of emotions, Washing away the sensitivity with the subtle hint Pain bleeding out its answers through the gash, A laceration, filled with feelings that won’t last – Feelings who sing of darkness and doubt, Feelings who are mysteries of the fragile heart, The heart who will reconcile, one day it will mend only… Will it still feel? Will this cutter ever genuinely heal? Grace answers this with a resolve that feels like Yes, etched into her flesh… Yes, God can reconcile The only scars written on her flesh as her heart Is returned to its best… with Him beside her, There is the promise that she’ll be a survivor!