…and my wounds are holy

My scars are sacred and my wounds are holy
carved deep within my skin
I still carry them everywhere, the proof of my survival
we all have shadows that we cannot see
easily broken but not easily healed
each break I endured has become a rune
my hope renewed by ancient spells spoken without sound
I had asked for nothing but to be seen
to be adored by eyes unafraid of the night
but in time I learned your real intent
I learned to name it in my silence and to never look away
some part of you still lives in me
where your memory still dares to hide
but I now I hope and now I dream
that your nightmares know my name
I still feel you, I know that you are out there
still lingering in the dark
and when the clouds obscure the moon
it is not the darkness that reminds me
but the understanding
that light arrives, gently, slowly
in broken fragments, yet whole in meaning
each sorrowful memory, a scripture of resilience
I am no martyr, I didn’t ask for pain
but I turned it into something
that now glows beneath my skin
there is a temple inside me now
built from everything that tried to break me
but ultimately failed
and although I am a quiet soul, make no mistake
my silence is sacred, a choice, a vow
for not everything that ever bleeds
must be buried in the dark
some wounds are meant to shine
becoming cathedrals in our souls
© Ann Bagnall