Where Love Heals

Maybe you’re right—
maybe my scars do define me.

The one on my hand—
a quiet reminder
that I learned how to create something beautiful
out of trial, error, and a little bit of fire.
I wasn’t always good at it,
but I stayed.
And I learned.
And now I nourish.

The two on my chest—
proof that I fought a war
some never make it out of alive.

They changed the way I look,
but tell me—
hasn’t beauty always lived deeper than skin?
Somewhere in the soul,
where survival blooms into something sacred?

The one on my arm—
she belongs to a thirteen-year-old girl
with wild hope in her eyes,
who believed the world was still soft
and full of promise.

And this one—
the largest, the deepest—
this one is yours.

You didn’t place it there.
You carved it out
when you pulled something from me
I didn’t know how to replace
and left me there,
bleeding—
but not broken.

Because even now,
I am still here—
still standing.

JMS