A Dermatologist's Nightmare

Scars are all that remain,
hundreds of pink, slightly raised lines on
my otherwise flawless pale skin.
These past few years haven't been too good to me.

And I remember every single time,
every moment of self-loathing.
I remember the glint of metal,
the sweet pain
and sighs of relief.

I remember red.
(I lived then in only one color, one shade.
From the hue of my hair
to the blood that I spilled,
red was my way of life.)

I can recall too clearly the shame,
wearing long sleeves on hot, summer days,
desperate to keep my secret undiscovered.
I was marvelous at faking smiles,
convincing everyone I was the perfect
daughter,
sister,
student;
friend.
No worries evident on my face or
in my words.
Dead inside and hating myself
for being another sad statistic.

Dozens of angst-ridden poems littered my mind.
I was the perfect drama queen...

Unapologetic when my addiction was revealed,
I refused to regret anything I'd done.

I learned how to use my scars to heal.

Each one has a story of its own.

Will you listen to what they have to say?