My Scars,

I participated in my second writing workshop in Toronto today, and one of the writing prompts was taken from an excerpt about the appearance of scars. I had ten minutes on the timer, and this is what I wrote…

My Scars

Twisted, gnarled, hideous.
I hear their whispers.
They hiss and spit as they pass
my gruesome disfiguration.

I cringe as their words lash at me like whips,
I whimper as their words flay me like scalpels,
I cower in the corner consumed by darkness.

But I hear them, 
I feel them, I see them.
Their eyes, they penetrate the shadows that cloak me.

Spiteful words spring up like chains,
restraining, and suffocating.
Their cruelty controls me, 
forcing me into submission.

I cannot escape.

My gruesome disfiguration.
My wounds.

My scars,
are on the inside.
They can see me.

Beyond the facade.
They see me for what I am.


My scars are on the inside.

They can see me,
my scars.



One thought on “My Scars,

  1. ‘Scars’ is extremely powerful. In the beginning, of course, you think the scars are physical scars, ones that you can see with your eyes. After reading further, you realize the scars are internal, painful, debilitating memories that cripple the writer. This is a remarkable piece of writing, deeply painful to read and experience. It exposes our own scars in an intensely personal way. Beautiful writing.

    Liked by 1 person

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