BOASTING IN MY SCARS

I do not hide the places
where life cut me open.
I wear them like medals—
proof that I have walked through fire
and came out carrying the flame.

These scars are my stories,
stitched into my skin
by nights that tried to break me
and storms that learned they couldn’t.
Every mark is a memory
of a battle I thought would drown me,
but didn’t.

I boast in my scars
because they remind me
that I have survived myself—
my doubts, my fears, my wounds,
my seasons of silent collapse.
I boast in them
because they shine louder
than every whisper that said, “You won’t make it.”

Let the world see them.
Let them trace the map
of every place I refused to fall.
Let them know I did not come this far
by walking smooth roads
or living painless days.
I came here torn, trembling,
but unyielding.

My scars are my testimony—
the handwriting of resilience,
the language of strength
written in the ink of endurance.
They are the reason I stand tall,
the reason I fear nothing
that comes dressed as pain.

So I lift my head,
stretch my arms wide,
and boast without shame:
these scars are mine.
My history.
My honor.
My rising.

For I am not beautiful despite my scars—
I am beautiful because of them.