I’m filled with tiny scars. Scars you can see if you look hard enough. Scars caused from injuries, from pain, and from slashed skin. Little markings that show proof of a life lived.
The scar from childhood when I ran into the grocery store counter.
The precise scars from various surgeries and procedures.
The unique scars from my youth that I see, yet can’t recall how they arrived.
The marks on my skin that show trauma and repair.
Noticeable marks that show wounds, damaged and then healed.
These markings, these carefully crafted lines and gashes, aren’t the scars that dug the deepest or hurt the most. Even the ones that literally carved into my flesh, causing blood and consequential stitching. These are merely the ones worthy of being seen.
The scars from the biggest pain and the most catastrophic events, are the ones buried in my heart. The ones that pierced my soul and clouded my mind. The ones that left pieces of me missing, instead of cuts and bruises. Scars from the portions of my being that were taken, making them undetectable but mighty.
The scars of grief.
The scars of loss and heartbreak.
Deep, mighty, and invisible.
The ones no one asks about. The ones not many understand. The ones that are unique and peculiar.
The scars in my mind from watching someone I love die.
The scars on my soul from a forced forever goodbye.
The scars on my heart from grief.
You could point out the deepest and ugliest scar gracing my body, and I’d be able to confidently tell you there are others far worse, you simply can’t see them. The scars of grief, invisible and fierce.
