Right now I am looking at the moon
While sitting under the light of a million stars.
I can feel the cool air against my skin
As I think about my own scars.
‘Who gave them to me?’ isn’t the question
Nor is ‘when will they heal?’
But carrying them along with me for the rest of my life
Seems like a very big deal.
Are these scars a relieving bliss
Or is it pain that they actually bear?
Will they be the reason behind my smile,
Or will they be my worst fear?
These scars might make me strong
Or they might tear me apart
They might be my downfall
Or they might be a refreshing start.
The moon has scars too
But still it’s admired by everybody
Then maybe my scars are pure too
Then maybe my scars aren’t muddy.