Cicatrix

On this side of my skin,
The dots turn into houses,
The sores turn into hills,
The scars tune into a song of their own-
Song that reminds me of those battles fought, and lost.

Just like the girl next door, my scars are usual and customary-
But if taken the time to look at, they have legends to narrate,
Legends in their own breach.

This infringement of white and dark patches,
These freckles that scatter over my vanilla skin,
The wrinkles that shine in the moonlit nigh’.
In places, my skin is embarked with blue-black blotches,
Elsewhere, it is clad in pale white stitches.

On this side of my skin,
There are also burns that have resulted in ridges;
These ridges that run endlessly till the edges of my skin-
Lately, had a cicatricial effect on me.

They whispered silent chants into my ears,
And made me conscious-
Not all scars are meant to be tagged as ugly and hideous,
Not all scars have a great deal a struggle hidden inside them;

Some of these scars we gather as we straddle the world,
Through the wide and narrow lanes,
Some of these scars have been passed onto us,
From the generation we might have never witnessed,
While the rest are just signs that tell us of the things we musn’t indulge ourselves later.

Scars are dull, dark and void,
And subtle reminders of what’s left in the past.
They are darkened honey and stale jello,
That fill my mind with unfathomable thoughts.

It’s a glorious facade, a dying smile,
With all the hatred and those blissful lies.
It’s a riddle that remains unanswered,
A flaw that is kept incorrect-
On this side of my skin,
There is story that is remains unheard
Which one day, I shall set free.