Outside looking in is not what I thought it would be – a pale reflection ghosts still alive silently haunting me. Shards of glass betray my secrets, pieces of my soul; words unuttered abused and misplaced forgetting what they hold. I see what passes for time before me, on whisper-thin thread, and through the window looking out, see the spirit that’s been bled.
Not with shame do I bear my scars nor with pride are they worn – each was earned on its own field and I owe them what I’ve sworn. Some long faded still ache at times, less of the flesh and more in the soul; those the deepest were wrought in the storms between you and I and remind me I am old. Those on the surface betray the secrets so carefully hidden beneath the skin; they crack and they bleed and echo the cries of a thousand nightmares mirroring my sins. My scars I’ll keep to remember me by as I wither and my spirit fades; I wear them with joy at having lived and loved, thankful for the pain.