To See My Scars

I need to see my scars.  Visible proof that invisible pain is healed.  Smoke signals, from charcoal words, burned into my heart of stone, that rise.  To the surface.  In this sand we share.  For all, even me, to see.  Evidence.  Of my healing.  Etched in ink.  On weathered wrists, wrinkled, with these hands of time.  On weary feet, worn, in this great space for grace.  On a wandering page, wondering, on the front porch of my life.

These hands have held so much pain.  These feet have journeyed through so much shame.  These journals have borne so much blame.  And now.  It's nice.  To see.  Baring Pain.  Healed.  Baring Beauty.

I have proof.  The evidence written on wrists, feet, pages.  My Scars.  To see.  I AM.  Baring Beauty.

I am, still, an island.  Held.  In deep blue waters.  I am, still, by grace.  Standing.  Through faith.  And I am, still, baring pain.  Here.  In the land of the living.  Still.  And needing.  To see my Scars.

(Click, or rather, press into the words written in red To See My Scars...)

©2017 JWhitman all rights reserved