Self-Portrait, (With Scars Still Showing)

by MissT

She is not fragile, though she has cracked in places. She laughs where it hurts, uses humour like duct tape on old wounds never properly stitched.

She loves too hard— falls for potential, not proof. Mothers the wounded. Calls it loyalty when it is hope that refuses to die.

She knows better. She sees the red flags, names them, jokes about them, folds them neatly and walks on, because loneliness speaks louder than danger.

She can be sharp. A quick tongue, a thin patience when cornered, when controlled. She burns bridges mid-crossing at the scent of disrespect, then mourns the view from the other side.

She gives too much: time, money, chances— emotional CPR for people who should have called someone else. She resents it. She repeats it.

She carries guilt like loose change, always in her pockets— mother, lover, survivor— the belief that rest must be earned.

But listen. She is resilient without spectacle. She rises. Feeds others. Writes truth with shaking hands. Finds tenderness even when the world has handled her carelessly.

Some lessons came late. Others came hard. She is still unlearning silence. Still choosing herself without rehearsal or apology.

She is not finished. Not fixed. Not beyond use.

She is a woman whose scars gave direction, whose heart survived misuse, whose voice— at last— remains.