Marked
I like scars.Hurt is inevitable; a rite of passage. It hunts us all. But I would not like to be anchored to my injuries, unable to properly move (on) from them.Scars signify that there was healing. And how incredible it is to be able to heal. My scars say that my resilience was tougher than my hurt. They remind me that I am stronger than I realise, which is something I frequently forget.Scars tell the stories of the cliffs I have frequented, the peaks I have steadied myself upon, and the valleys I have claimed.Yet, I think there’s such a thing as ‘too much healing’. I would not like to be healed to the extent that no trace of my earlier injuries is visible.That is also why I like scars. They say not only that I was strong but that I was vulnerable. Without scars, there would be no difference between the person untouched by hurt and the person who has assimilated it.My injuries don’t define me, but that I worked through them and the way that I did, does. My scars tell you how I am performing my rite and my right to passage.Maybe these fault lines and reinforcements and stretch marks of ours are the etchings through which Life can tell us apart and we can recognise each other.The scars narrate where we are more robust in some ways and more delicate in some ways. Because, on some days, when I stretch a part of myself too much, or when the inevitable cold feels particularly biting, the flesh beneath certain scars may ache a bit. I am glad of this. It reminds me that there are some lines along which I may need a bit more care.Because maybe injury can be overcome but pain still comes home every now and then.Maybe scars don’t mark the end of healing, but the continuing presence of it.Sometimes, my love, my stranger, my friend, they show you where you may need to be more gentle when you trace your fingers, when you touch me. 
Image credit: Sakshi Oberoi