I’m still here,
typing with mostly one hand,
the other stiff and swollen.
While not wrapped
from knuckle to bicep,
I am splinted from wrist up.
I’m tired,
though the pain
is mostly gone.
It’s easy to think of you,
with this bodily reminder.
A scar, inches long,
now takes up space
on my word arm.
If sculpted, shaped
into phrases or thoughts,
no words could describe
*everything.*
You’re not to blame,
by the way.
I fell; I broke; I laughed;
and I nearly fainted,
all in good fun.
Scars run deep,
both visible and not.
But I don’t think all scars
are blemishes,
marks of defiance
or pain.
Some are sweet memories,
ways of remembering
passing days
and blue skies.
I hold tight to my scars,
both visible and not,
because I think they mean something —
I think they define me in beautiful,
messy patterns,
like a chipped tea cup glued back together.
You are now a mark,
a scar upon my body.
Thank you for adding
to my story.
It’s long and sad
but oh so beautiful.
So It Goes 