Scars

My body is different from yours.

It’s been a lifelong effort to create this truth.

My memories of you often remind me of what not to become.

They sometimes scream to keep control.

Control is an illusion that keeps me safe.

It smells like furniture polish and bleach. It feels like a warm breeze from an open window. It looks like vacuum marks on a rug. It sounds like air conditioning clicking on in the summer.

The flinching has lasted through adulthood.

The diagnoses follow me often.

They haunt me with an occasional stutter.

Sweat. Fear. Anxiety. Panic. Control.

Clean & polish. No clutter. Learn more. Do more. Don’t be late. Send a thank you card. Shut off the lights. Lock the doors. Check twice. Be perfect.

As much as I try, as much money as I’ve spent working to try to fix myself, I sometimes feel like I will never be repaired.

My body is different from yours.

Nothing can take away the scars you gave me. They sometimes itch to tell me they are still there.

You were relentlessly restless.

I was in fight or flight, feeling all of it.

You seemed so strong to others…I do too.

We were both actresses. We just didn't know it.

But, still, my body is different from yours.