Scars.

Perfect horizontal lines dance down my arms as if they were destinations on a road map. Let your fingers run down them and listen to their story.

Listen as they tell the story of a struggling woman that made some poor decisions. As you reach the end of the horizontal lines, swim in the pool of scarring on the back of my hand. Use my knuckles to climb out and follow the path of dark skin up to the corners of my lips, where my fingers have been parked many, many times.

Travel from my lips back down to my arms, but take a right to arrive at your second destination – my stomach. The stomach with thousands upon thousands of neat, horizontal lines. There are faded words that have been etched with a piece of metal, like a writer jotting down an idea to elaborate on later that day. Listen to my stomach and hear the rumbles of starvation that make me feel beautiful.

Travel farther down to my thighs – your final destination. My thighs, which have been littered with lines going in all directions. Some lines horizontal, some vertical. Shapes appear as you notice faded burns and faded squiggles that resemble what could have once been words.

My scars are a road map; pay close attention, and you will be able to hear their story.

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