I spent a good portion of the day staring at my scarred skin. I ran my fingers over the pale, raised marks in wonder. I felt thankful for the way they healed, for the softness of my skin, for my lack of shame in exposing them.

I never really noticed my skin before. Or any part of my body actually. I knew I had a body, logically. But I didn’t know it was mine.

So I was sitting on my bed and staring at my arm, my leg, my chest, all scarred. Thinking just how beautiful I really am. I touched my thighs, and my calves and my feet and thought how wonderful they are.

I get it. I get how much worth I have.

I also realize how weirdly thankful that I’m left with scars. My eyes have lost their haunted look. And my joy and happiness are visible in my expression and words. And bubbling about how beautiful life is to others… Can give the impression that I ‘just don’t know any better’ about how shitty life is.

Haha. Stick out my arm, look!

… I don’t actually think I’d do that though.

But I like it. I like that you can see my past on my body, my present in my expression, and my future in my words.


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