The Alchemy of Scars

The Forge

The blacksmith’s fire knows my name,

its tongues of blue and gold proclaim

a pact written in ash and flame.

I press my palms to coals that sing—

not prayer, but a reckoning.

Here, pain is not a thief; it’s kin.

It carves its hymns into my skin,

a liturgy of begin again.

The Map

My body is no grave for ghosts.

It’s parchment where the wildest coasts

are charted: here, the avalanche,

its teeth still buried in my hands.

Here, drought—the well where thirst began.

Here, floodwaters that choked my plans.

Each scar a compass rose, a star,

to guide me where the wreckages are.

The Ritual

At midnight, I return to steel.

The hammer’s rhythm makes me kneel,

not in shame, but to relearn

how ruin can become a urn

for embers. Let the anvil scream—

I am the ore, the forge, the stream

that quenches what the world deemed weak.

My breath? A bellows. Tears? The leak

of oceans I refuse to keep.

The Tattoo

The needle’s hymn is merciless—

it writes in glyphs of blood and yes.

”I AM THE STORM I SURVIVED”

curls round my ribs, a truth revived,

its ink a swarm of midnight bees

that sting the dark to wake the trees.

Trace it slow—this braille of fight—

and feel the lightning I recite.

The Offering

You, with eyes like shattered hymns,

who wear your hurt beneath your limbs:

come. Let me teach your fists to bloom

to fists no longer wed to doom.

We’ll melt our chains to liquid sun,

forge compasses from what’s undone.

Our scars? Not wounds. They’re watersheds—

where mercy drowns what vengeance bred.

The Legacy

When my bones are dust and air,

take this torch. Let its glare

etch your skin with verbs, not nouns:

”RISE.” ”REBUKE.” ”REPENT THE GROUND.”

Add your verse to this old song—

”WE ARE THE FIRES THAT BURNED TOO LONG,

AND STILL, THE DAWN FOUND US ALIVE.”

Pass it on. Let the flame thrive.