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.
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