Scars as Medicine

there are scars on my body that you cannot see, a map of pain that i will not show you until i trust you. 

the imprint of a grown man’s hands on the stomach of me when i’m 5, of an old man’s mouth on my breasts when i’m 20, of young men’s nails scratching my back after i’m drugged and forced to submit to him in my teens, of a man’s hands suffocating me, hands wrapped around my neck because i asked a question. the women with the questions deep in her spirit are the ones they love the most, didn’t you know? 

these scars are invisible to you and i know i wear them well, i’ve turned my rage into mystery, i’ve turned my grief into devotion… yeah yeah yeah.. do you see the scars on the bodies of Woman as she walks down the street, as she buys her groceries, as she cries in the forest? do you see her? 

these scars hold a sickness, a translucent poison that seeped through the cells of my skin and deep into my marrow, the kind that slowly repels the sun, the kind that turns into oily, unbrushed hair, the kind that disappears for days at a time then pretends nothing is wrong. were there ever words for such a deep sorrow? 

i will be the daughter to collect again what was stolen. i will follow the tracks. 

the grandmothers tell me, these scars are medicine. as i face the dark, black eyes of the predator, i remember who we are and what we carry. it is only then that i remembered the deepest truth of why our wombs have been tracked and hunted for thousands of years. 

the scars the predator left on my body created an invisible path, one i could see when i stopped gazing upon my vessel with eyes reeking of the shame, one i could follow when i recognized it as an ancient labyrinth, a rite of passage of old.

the grandmothers tell me, these scars are medicine. they tell me it is beneath the rubbles of burned temples that the answers live. it is beneath the soil where the bones are buried that the answers live. it is beneath the ashes of fires put out in haste that the answers live. it is underneath the decay that all you seek resides, little witch, she whispers in my ear. 

i will be the daughter to collect again what was stolen. i will follow the tracks.

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Lost Rites of Passage

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The many faces of the Teacher