People tell me scars aren’t important and to just ignore them, or that they are really cool, or that you should never feel shamed of a scar because you were stronger than what tried to kill you. Yes, I’m a survivor it’s written all over my body, but, all these comments do is remind me of what gave me these scars, what changed me and what made me scared to live.
These scars will never go away, they show in everything I wear and as such will remind me everyday of the sunny afternoon that changed my life for the worst. It’s inescapable. Every time I look at myself.
These scars do not feel as if they are mine. They belong to my father; he was sat pillion on the motorbike I was riding. After 5 hours of riding and less than a mile from our destination an elderly man at a junction didn’t bother to look. My father spent a month in a coma, 2 months in hospital has permanent brain damage and he has changed forever – but that leaves no scar visible for everyone to comment on. The scars I have remind me of him. Every surgery reminds me of him. Every difficulty I now have reminds me of him and how on that day I feel like my dad died. These scars don’t belong to me and were carved into my skin against my will. I did not ask for them, I do not want them. I do not want any memory of how I got them. I want to forget. All people see are my scars, they stare at my scars, all people want to do is ask me about my scars. So I tell them;
My body was smooth and contoured to size,
I was energetic and so far succeeding with life
I was born perfect, bearing my fathers eyes,
A man in a car pulled out and BANG I soared high
Flying and plummeting I cracked the earth
Breaking my bones, soul and worth
Owning the road, cars stopped to give way
Dr Attasi pushed through and scooped up his prey
This surgeon carved and slashed abstract lines
Into my body that I had once known as mine
He took his time making a mess
Like a toddler with crayons doodling at recess
He knew he had failed that is why
On his rounds he says with a hidden smile, “we need to try”
Try for what? Isn’t it over?
I can’t do it again, there’s nothing leftover
Who cares about fixed and bolted bones?
Gently look at my skin and hear my groans
They echo down the hospital corridors
Yet this Dr wants another go, he wants an encore?
He wants to go again and make me weak
And so he did over and over again 12 more tweaks
I gave up my body my skin in tow
My skin was being kneaded just like dough
Being pierced open then stitched up again and again
Leaving me scars that I now had to maintain
To show with pride or to hide with distain
I feel shamed like this, to be marked in permanent stains
I have no tattoos but am permanently inked
With the scars that the good Dr managed to chink
In the armour that is not iron but skin
On a sunny afternoon, a man in a car, and my last carefree grin