Wild: Scarring

Scars:
 they open again
doesn't matter how long they've been closed
or how you've changed
doesn't matter how charming you are now, how American or modern
how different you have striven to make yourself

if a picture is trapped in the head of a person, a group of people, even a whole town
that is the picture that will stay
that is the picture that they've saved

one
where you are a virus, one
where you are the shared side-glances of, Oh, it's her, one
 where where people become archaeologists, too ready to pick the bones in your conversation

that one
scars.

it welts, it bruises
but you've learned to smile through it, learned
that their picture of you isn't true now.

You are a different person now,
you are a person who is modern and smiling, humorous and clever
you have new clothes and your new goal is to be just like Penelope Garcia,
and you've written at a newspaper, learned new skills, met Whovians
you have seen the greatest city in the world, the city of the angels
you have survived the waves against your brow, your limb--

you are still scarred.

Worn.
Used.
Discarded.

Their picture will stay, though
even after you've died
it's glued, it's stuck, it's there already
so give it up.

Accept the scar.








Don't tell them how it hurts, don't
complain about how it's unfair
your words are wasted on a scar;
the skin's already warped.

Smile, pat her hand, and say,
Go anyway, and waste no words
go anyway, and have great company

pat your scar
look at a cloudy sky in an angry, small-minded town;
 in short,
survive.