Faded Scars

A white ridge dissects the blue outline of the vein in my wrist, I still find it beautiful and it still taunts me with blood and pain divine every time it catches my eye.

My scars have faded, my wounds have faded, but I secretly hope they will never disappear. They are smoothed over by healing skin and a beautiful life, a life I never believed I could have. That's the irony- my scars are my only proof that I feel deep enough to appreciate my life of love, warmth and happiness. I may not have more, or even as much as most, but the fact that I nearly had none, that I nearly gave up, that I truly believed I would never have anything makes it all the more stunning that now I have everything. So happy its painful, but only for the teenage girl crying, bleeding, wishing to die, believing it was impossible to hope, pointless to live, because no one would love an unlovable person. No one would bother to heal a wounded soul.

Never knowing that not only did I deserve the heart of another, but that they were so close, arriving so soon, just waiting for me to learn to love myself so I could appreciate being loved to this magnitude.

Not blind devotion, not happily ever after- instead happy most days, happy for years, satisfied, awed and blissful in an imperfect but wondrous safe harbor, filled with cameras and cats and cuddles, couches, computers and colours.

No drama, at least very little, no need for it. Love isn't grand gestures and theatrics; its tiny real imperfect but so perfect moments, any one of which can level out a bad day, week, month or life, into one to smile about.

And everyday adds to the healing of scars.