We Should Probably Thank Our Lucky Scars

a poem that tries to make your hurt have meaning

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Thirty-three.

An inch to the left and it would have missed your unlucky heart and you would still be alive and stopping a part of her from living.

Pain isn’t taking but giving. Trace the outline with your fingertips.

I’ve spent enough time licking my wounds to know there’s a taste even if bitter of grace.

Loved, lost, yearned and learned sometimes we get burned sometimes we’re the hot stove they need to know not to touch.

Sometimes we shatter our shins jumping in. Sometimes we’re a crutch, they’ll heal too much to handle.

Even if it’s not for us. If our hurt is what their healing cost. If someone gets found while you’re still lost, out in the ocean, trying to remember how to navigate with the stars.

We should thank our lucky scars.