You believe that recovery is impossible,
unachievable,
unreachable.
You cannot fathom
a life apart from scars.
You’re painting a travesty on the canvas before you-
The world through your eyes
is the very world which feeds you lies.
You purge yourself of truth;
starve the skeletal remains of a life.
You cannot fathom,
imagine,
dream
of a life apart from scars.
Your life is an everyday battlefield.
Could anyone remain unscathed?
You were a child soldier,
artillery weighing you down,
doe-eyed down the barrel of a gun.
Your demons made you a fighter,
your heart made you a survivor.
You’re truth-starved, tricks fed.
But there’s more to your face than pretty,
more to your eyes than pain.
There’s more to your body than sexy,
more to your skin than scars.
I wish you could look in the mirror
and see a girl that’s irreplaceable,
not irreparable.
Your demons made you a fighter,
but your heart made you a survivor.
