A Map of My Scars

Every scar I carry has a story.

Some are small like the faded line on my knee from a childhood fall,

or the burn on my wrist from a careless moment in the kitchen.

They’re easy to explain, easy to laugh about.

But then there are the others.

The ones you can’t see.

The ones left behind by words that cut deeper than knives,

by love that walked away,

by nights spent staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the weight of it all.

These scars don’t fade as easily.

They stay.

They shape me.

I used to wish them away,

to wake up one day untouched, unmarked, whole.

But now, I see them for what they are,

not just reminders of pain,

but proof that I’ve survived.

This is my map.

A map of every battle, every fall, every rise.

A map that shows I am still here.

And that is something to be proud of.