Scars

By Laura Brigger

Scars-It’s hard to hide scars, so I don't try.

It’s hard to hide scars, so I don't try to hide them anymore.

Love flows out of me, a painful acid etching its mark with every drop.

I lay dying, with love like life’s blood, dripping—barely able to pool.

The dogs lap it. They hunger and lap it,

their muzzles wet and stained red with my pain,

their eyes glistening, greedy for more.

My sad eyes narrow. I wince.

One more drop trickles down, etching a path forever.

They rush in quickly—those wolves—brandishing teeth,

warning their neighbor: stay back.

Their greed, their hunger, is all they see.

It’s all they know.

Do I keep on producing this life—

This honey, sweet to them—this love from my pain?

Yes. Damn me.

Because I know what it’s like to go without.

I know the winter cold of loneliness,

its icy breath a curse without words.

The prison of isolation,

where I’m trapped in a darkness of no feeling at all.

Hate me, will you?

Hate me, please—

But do not be indifferent.

I begged for her to hate me.

I longed for it.

I craved it.

Something—better than nothing.

I had once known love.

It was freely given,

a joy that bounded forth and wrapped the small child in its arms,

sent it high into the air, catching it soundly—

spinning and laughter.

But that was taken from me—stolen.

I saw betrayal’s true nature when she chose herself by dying.

I was left with her—

“The her” that had fought me,

tried to be taller, be bigger, to outshine,

to steal what was meant for me.

I was hers now, and she could punish me—

punish me for what I had gotten.

Those moments of love that I knew,

I would come to regret knowing.

The warmth I felt—like the sun warming me from the inside,

like a heated blanket to warm my bones—

would become the fire to my hell.

I knew love,

so I could never unknow it.

Oh, but how I wanted to unknow it.

It was gone now, though,

and the cool indifference I was left with

was an icy path,

mile after twisted mile,

With no way back.

There is no welcome in the cool stare of an agenda—

selfish, wicked selfishness,

to step on your breath,

smile with a smirk,

and let off just to watch you gasp.

Blue is her favorite color.

It’s my face as I struggle.

I claw at her grip,

turning my head higher, ever higher—

reaching, struggling

for one drop of life, one drop of air.

It’s the color of the thick, icy prison that surrounds me.

Not one drop of feeling gets through

these lonely walls she has built for me.

The walls are so thick.

Still, she will daily ice them

with her breath of indifference.

But I have known love.

And something about it heals.

Even the tiniest bit heals.

It grows and blooms forgiveness.

Whether I like it or not,

it begs me to remember its warmth.

I long for it, reach for it—

And it’s gone. Forever gone.

The hole left is so deep—

miles past anything deep.

Still deeper, the memory of it sits.

I squint my eyes to see the flicker of its warmth.

I give up my struggle—

And all the while, a vine has grown,

grown up, clinging to those icy walls,

climbing high.

It grabs my heart.

It heals.

Forgiveness melts my icy prison from its center.

A warmth radiates from inside me.

Drops slide down the prison walls.

I sit in cool pools, shivering, waiting for my escape.

On the day I break free, I cry forth freedom’s cry.

I vow I will never be imprisoned again.

I will let love grow and give it freely,

clothing those who are cold.

The strange thing about love—

It always comes from pain.

Pain has dug a well so deep,

hollowed out to hold all this love I share.

As I lay, strength gone,

unable to lift my head—

A new drop of love flows forth,

carving a path for another.

The receiver, worthy, unworthy?—I care not.

For I am their mother.