The scars on my skin are fragments of memories that spill from my eyes when my heart is punctured hard enough.

I can feel fingers grasping the veins from my body, tugging it delicately yet effortlessly as I cry out in pain begging for mercy.

I can see the poison oozing from my blood when the thoughts of you course through my nerves, penetrating the vibrations of my pulse.

I can hear the intoxicating voices telling me to ignore the radiating pains reverberating through me as I spill the ink from my veins into poetry, trying to use my crooked etches for art.

Because my resentful thoughts and piercing screams are art.

They are not ugly battle scars that I wear once I step foot into the world like a man off to war,

They are not the crooked pieces of my heart that were built from ashes and slashed kneecaps,

They are not the reason my exhales have become heavier and my cries have become deafening,

They are art.
They matter.
They rebuild me as though I was never broken.
They interlock their hands with me in the darkness and provide me a home.