![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
As I'm sure yesterday's attempt made abundantly clear.
Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched up gash remains. (That's how she learned that spinning around in stocking feet on a slippery hardwood floor is not advisable lest loose nail meet bright young chin.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale white flesh marking former beauty marks (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pock marks on her face if you care to look close enough.
But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by their hardened tissue and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find these in a study of her corpse.
She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)
She knows the deeper gashes that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions if her memories of great crashing waves of ocean were there at all. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smashes into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown.
(That's how she learned that some wounds never truly go away.)
She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. Worn away so smoothly by years of anger that they leave no scars.
She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as pearls and sand and tattoos of invisible ink.
But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.
The version I submitted (didn't win, but I don't suppose that was the point anyway):
Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched-up gash remains. (That's how she learned that dancing is dangerous.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale, white flesh left as evidence of former beauty marks. (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pockmarks on her face if you care to look close enough.
But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by her hardened heart and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. (Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find them in a study of her corpse.)
She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her, day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)
She knows each invisible pinprick of the tattoo needle; stains that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions her memories of great crashing waves of ocean. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smash into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown. (That is how she learned to swim.)
She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by Her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. The bits that were worn away so smoothly by years of resentment that there is nothing left of them.
She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as unseen mementos. She keeps them as pearls and tattoos of invisible ink. (But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.)
Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched up gash remains. (That's how she learned that spinning around in stocking feet on a slippery hardwood floor is not advisable lest loose nail meet bright young chin.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale white flesh marking former beauty marks (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pock marks on her face if you care to look close enough.
But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by their hardened tissue and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find these in a study of her corpse.
She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)
She knows the deeper gashes that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions if her memories of great crashing waves of ocean were there at all. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smashes into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown.
(That's how she learned that some wounds never truly go away.)
She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. Worn away so smoothly by years of anger that they leave no scars.
She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as pearls and sand and tattoos of invisible ink.
But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.
The version I submitted (didn't win, but I don't suppose that was the point anyway):
Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched-up gash remains. (That's how she learned that dancing is dangerous.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale, white flesh left as evidence of former beauty marks. (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pockmarks on her face if you care to look close enough.
But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by her hardened heart and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. (Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find them in a study of her corpse.)
She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her, day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)
She knows each invisible pinprick of the tattoo needle; stains that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions her memories of great crashing waves of ocean. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smash into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown. (That is how she learned to swim.)
She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by Her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. The bits that were worn away so smoothly by years of resentment that there is nothing left of them.
She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as unseen mementos. She keeps them as pearls and tattoos of invisible ink. (But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.)
