Here I sit naked and completely exposed to all.
Displaying each scar visibly etched in my soft, brown skin.
Small and large, dark and light, smooth and rough
scars indicative of the original wound.
Some, reminders of past hurts and poor choices -
others simply from living life.
Like that time I wanted to be a free spirit.
One who lived in the moment.
Traveling the world, living life to the fullest.
Don’t worry, be happy … and broke:
It took 7 years to get over that one.
In tune with my earthy side.
Cutting my crowning glory to its natural state.
I’m still waiting for it to return to its majestic lengths.

There are some wounds yet to heal on display too.
Each one vulnerable to a touch.
A painful touch, intense like broken pieces of glass grazing it
leaving small shards behind.
Ouch … this one is still trying to heal
- deep and wide -
It’s the one from My Love’s death.
I remember the very day, the very moment
He was no longer with me.
- November 1, 1996, the exact hour of 3 pm -
It hit me in the pit of my belly.
You know, like riding a fast-moving roller coaster
on the down side of the highest point.
Then twisting and turning
as though my umbilical cord was spinning round and round inside
knocking the breath out of me, rendering me speechless.
The phone line delivering words of sadness from this stranger
oddly connected with me through our loss.

In the beginning, this wound wasn’t so deep and wide.
It grew a scab to protect itself,
But relationship after relationship,
the breakups rip it off repeatedly
before the skin releases it from its hold:
that natural scab releasing process of a healed wound.
Blood and pus ooze from it.
The infection of disappointing grief,
undeserving hurts, unrelenting pains,
simmering anger, the “You are so nice, but …” rejections,
broken dreams, dead dreams of me and him left at the side of his grave.
Shards of glass are painful reminders of this wound’s vulnerabilities.
All remedies tried so far to heal have only irritated it, not healed it..
Lashing out at those around me trying to find relief.
I hope one day those caught in my lashings will forgive me.

I close my eyes as the blood rushes to my face.
Embarrassment from the memories flooding my mind.
Memories of where and how
each scar and each wound made its existence,
not just on the surface of my soft, brown skin,
but in the depths of my soul.
Cold air sweeps across my body
causing hairs to bristle in its wake and
goosebumps to come alive.
Did the unfettered air simply approach
because no one protects me?
Or did the Lord just breathe on me,
breathe on me letting me know I am not forsaken?

I am overwhelmed with an urge to put my covering on again.
The covering that is my shield and makes scars and wounds invisible.
The covering that blends me in with a world
that neither knows me nor wants me.
I … want … my … covering.
But it’s too late now.
Healing can begin.
I am exposed,
exposed simply
by
My Spoken Word.

Copyright 2008
Ms. Rae