I have been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of soul searching. I write thoughts in my head for later fodder. Tonight this is one skimmed from a dream a few days ago.
My story will not be written in the stars
It will be written in my scars
Upon physical inspection
They are not seen with the naked eye.
I am not so arrogant as to think the stars
Hold my story in their ancient grasp
Here, on my wrist, is raised skin from
An accident in high school chemistry
The event changed my life
There are burn marks on my face from that day too
They have faded with time.
This one is from when I jumped off the porch
Onto a broken coke bottle
It was my first set of stitches
Beneath my skin a whole other story unfolds
In my mind I am still the small child
That bore the brunt of a belt-wielding father
Those welts have long since faded
But not the memory of my eight year old self
Dodging as the leather whizzed through the air
In a resounding thwack.
The bite mark on my back has smoothed out
From the bashing I took at the hands of boys bigger than me
High school boys that were older
And I have no reasoning for the attack
Almost thirty years later.
But it has been words that left the deepest cut
Such as, “you are ugly”
“You will never amount to anything”
These serve as a warning to parents
You may forget what you say in anger
To your children
But they never will.
Like a patchwork quilt
Laid deep in my mind
The collection of scars
Are the tapestry that tell my story
The stars are inconsequential
I wrap myself in a blanket not of my own making
But one handed down through the years
Generations before me have woven this story
– On the road