Among the others . . .
Crawling up my leg.
A deep slice
Into the juicy insides
Of a pale, goose-bump-covered watermelon.
Sticky juices once oozing from its edges.
A single scar.
That came to be in my sleep.
As my anesthesia faded
The feelings sharpened.
It means nothing!
But this nothing will never disappear.
To a friend-
It's a reminder of my pain, something they will never understand.
It is an addition to the collage
Countless surgeons have been carving upon my hip.
A scientific creation,
Artwork that cannot be erased.
It is no more than a deformity.
A reason for me to cry.
They don't see what I see.
I see a piece of art.
A beautiful, unique
*This is a poem I wrote shortly after having my 8th hip surgery. I've been bullied before because of the surgical scars I have and I hope that you too can look at a scar as a piece of art-something unique that comes with a story. Scars make you an individual, not ugly.