Short stories in words and photos.


When she looks at her arms made of white tiny lines

She should see all the tears and all of those times

When she thought pain would be easy and not hurt as much,

If it came in a form she could actually touch.

It’d be bearable,

more gentle,

more meaningful,

less mental

And she could have been good,

she should have not cried

And she would have mattered

If only she tried.

So she scratched every inch of that anxious mind,

her skin’s now a canvas for stories outlined

in lyrics and music and healing compassion,

The hurt turned into love, a soft place to crash on.

When needed.