To Write Love On Her Arms.

My heart is under an all-out attack, and its a good thing.
I remember the times when the Enemy is just entirely bowled me over, sliced me off at the knees, and promplty started taking the wounds and rubbing them, scratchingly, itchingly, chillingly with salt. He'll use his claws however he has to, its true.
But I wouldn't go back and change it. Not in the slightest.
The white hot pain sears my memory, and i'll never forget the internal screams and shrieks and desparate "Where are You? Why have you forsaken me?". I still have the scars on my legs to prove it, and I hope they never go away. Lemon juice tears scalded my cheeks as I moved my needle in rage. if they couldn't see how ugly I was, then I would make them see.
It's like a twisted tornado slide that's been greased and sharpened. Down, down, down, tearing at empty air and eyes rolling, clawing for the horizon you KNOW is there. or is it? There's no one to help you, you're on your own, it was cemented when he murmured "just fight it" and turned back to the tv. Or when she got fed up and yelled "so its all about medicine? thats all it is, huh?" When you hug yourself and rock back and forth to remind you of the days when mama could still hold you together. Now no one's holding you at all.
I remember.
And I hope I never forget.
I want to trace that raised scar in my mind so I can remember what the scream sounded like. Not so I can relive it myself. So I can recognize it in others.
Believe me. I'm not out to become a Ms. Fix-it, and I can't rescue anyone. But I can reach out my hand when I recognize someone drowning and point them to the only life preserver they have. He is the salve to the broken hearted. Even if I can't be a rescue, a drop of kindness is like a trickle of water to someone who hasn't had a glass for weeks.
The scars that turn white in the summer time remind me that I'm a human being, and not an emotionless drone trying to do the right thing. They write stories of survival, desperation, hate, and love, death, and life. They're the tears that filled my eyes when she asked me "why? why doesn't she want to be with us?" They're the clench in my jaw when I found a bruise on her arm, again. They're the surprise in my eyes when I found out that everyone else knew, and everyone else did....nothing. They're the heat that filled my stomach when I saw his face fall while she wasn't looking. Its the weakness in my fingers when I hear his voice waver for the first time. While I can't write love on their arms for them, I can hand them the pen, and wait while the courage manifests itself until, finally, a deep breath is drawn and slowly...slowly....slowly....they begin to write.
For all of the girls out there who have been told by anyone that they were worthless. This is for you. Because sometimes the most beautiful flowers are the ones that have sprung up out of ashes. And we all have.