A Tattoo-Worthy Poem: One Line You’ll Never Forget

Scars That Speak

I was seven when I fell.

Knees split open, blood like spilled ink.

Mom whispered, "Don’t cry—skin remembers."

I didn’t understand.

At twelve, a boy called me broken.

I traced my scars like Braille.

They felt like raised typewriter keys.

At twenty, I stood naked before a mirror.

Every mark, every healed wound, told a story.

"I am not ruined—I am a book someone tried to dog-ear."

Now, when strangers ask about my tattoos,

I point to the oldest one first.

The one my body wrote itself.