We all carry the scars of life. We bleed our failures. Taste the salty tears of regret. Our flesh burns with unfilled dreams, hopes, and desires. We’re all painted from a palette of brokenness, a palette that carries our own unique shades. Are these beautiful scars all that gets to define us, or is there more? What have the scars left? Resilience? Determination? Strength? Self-love?
As I stand in my bathroom running my hands over the skin that greets this world, I can’t help but see the scars the world can’t see. To me, they are clear as the blemishes that dot my face. I use to believe that my scars, these beautiful badges of torment, defined me. I believed they were all that got to tell my story. They don’t, though, instead they are just one piece of a larger puzzle.
An incomplete puzzle kept hidden for fear that the scars would distort the image that the world would inevitably consume. But the scars are no reason to hide the puzzle, especially when it’s far easier to build it in the light of day. Just because I’m sitting down to, finally, build my puzzle for the world to see, doesn’t mean I have to give them the power to determine the final form.
No, that power rest with me.
We are not defined by gods, religions, nor mankind. We define ourselves and always should. No excuses and no substitutions.