THE DEAD DON’T FORM SCARS

By Todd Matson

Memorials left in skin

by cuts and gashes from

broken glass, playing on

monkey bars, falling from

bicycles and trampolines,

colliding on soccer fields

where pain once hijacked

game faces, where wounds

penetrated several layers

of young, innocent skin. 

Tears dry. Scars remember.

Hidden scars telescoping

back to seasons of life

when symptoms of anxiety,

panic, depression, guilt,

shame, anger, self-loathing,

body dysmorphia, mistrust,

perfectionism, fear of intimacy,

sense of impending doom

took center stage – derivatives

which make sense only when

traced back to hidden origins

 – unspoken traumas hiding

in plain sight like colors seen

only under ultraviolet light.

Lit cigarettes sadistically

pressed against arms, legs,

torso at ages too young

to remember, burning 

through the epidermis

into the dermis, littering

skin with scars that resemble

small pox vaccines. Strange

how the body remembers

what the mind can’t.

Self-hate carved into arms,

legs and neck like cornrows.

Cuts self-inflicted to release

endorphins, feel numb, detour

mental and emotional anguish

through flesh for momentary

relief, to make the abstract

concrete, the intangible

tangible, to incarnate the

unremitting and unbearable

in scars that vicariously

remember what feels best

forgotten.

Despair engraved on

the underside of wrists.

Fibrous fossils of short

horizontal slashes, of

long vertical slices

meticulously following

arteries up forearms, 

shouting through a 

megaphone what

semicolons whisper.

Track marks archiving

a history of enslavement

to the pursuit of fleeting

synthetic heavenly bliss

speckling arms, hands,

feet, legs, neck wherever

arteries are found. Raised,

hardened, discolored skin.

Darkened lines from veins

collapsing after being

needled to death. Holes,

indentations where dirty

needles invaded, skin died

and departed. Thin lines

around skin grafts now

conspicuously concealing

and revealing horrors that

once were but are no longer.

Battle scars. Bullet wounds,

limbs stapled and sutured

at stubs adjacent to phantom

pains where arms, legs, hands

and feet use to be. Chemical

burns to skin, lungs. Post-

concussion scars seen only

on MRIs. Post-traumatic

scars that live on long after

battles end. Scars visible,

invisible, refusing to stay

silent, telling of heroic

sacrifices, sharing secrets

words refuse to tell.

Scars from battles fought

at home when death comes

knocking. Train tracks

running 8 to 10 inches

straight down the center

of the chest, 4 to 6 inches

horizontally across the chest,

diagonally from sternum

to armpit where breasts

used to be, 2 to 3 inches

along the lower right

abdomen. Scars chosen

to protect a beating heart,

remove rogue cells bent

on killing, prevent rupture,

peritonitis, sepsis, death.

Scars documenting in

human flesh stories of

fighting spirits, journeys

from victim to survivor.

And then there are scars

formed by mortal wounds

when death is deprived of

having the last word. Victims

of accidents and violence

who bled to death, stopped

breathing, amazingly returned

to life by CPR, defibrillators,

intubation, blood transfusions.

Yes, even mortal wounds form

scars when death is deprived

of having the last word.

Nail-scarred hands, feet.

A scar in his side from

being impaled by a spear.

Our Lord bled out and

died. We buried him in

a tomb. Miraculously,

he rose to life again with

scars to prove it was him.

He died and rose again

for us. By his wounds, by

his scars we are healed.

Celebrate your scars for

they are proof of life.

Badges of honor. Signs

of resiliency. Artefacts of

truth buried seven layers

deep that once discovered

set us free. Declarations

that death and despair do

not have the last word.

Your scars no longer

speak for you. You speak

for your scars. You lived.

Your wounds have been

transformed into scars,

and your scars have been

transformed into a source

of hope and healing for

others. For only the forces

of life can form a scar. The

dead don’t form scars. 

ABOUT THE POEM: "In a culture obsessed with stereotypical standards for outward beautiful, as well as fearful of being perceived as not having it all together inside, this poem attempts to completely reframe the meaning of our scars. Since I work as a therapist, the details in the poem are inspired by the very normal and resilient traumatized and hurting people who come to me for therapy as they seek to emerge from past traumatic experiences, to journey from victim to survivor and from surviving to thriving, with a deep sense of personal worth and dignity intact."

ABOUT TODD: Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in North Carolina, United States. His poetry has been published in Feminine Collective, San Antonio Review, The Brussels Review, and featured in Poetry for Mental Health. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by several contemporary Christian music artists.

1 IN 4

by Jo Whitehorn

We laugh and we joke, “Aren’t her antics such fun?”

But she’s left with the mess when the laughter is done.

The house is a mess… it’s too hard to clean.

And why does she always feel angry and mean?

They think she’s just lazy, but that’s far from the truth.

She’s tried harder than most ever since her youth.

She wished you could see she’s just wired this way,

Never quite feeling she fits in each day.

1 in 4 women couldn’t mask anymore.

The guilt was too much, too loud to ignore.

Always too much, yet never enough.

To some she’s too blunt, to others too rough.

Whenever she speaks, all her words come out crossed,

Her self worth becoming the ultimate cost.

She’s smart and she’s funny, so why can’t she succeed?

She tells herself she’s broken, anything else is just Nieve.

She can’t work for a boss, her filter’s gone missing.

She’s just not cut out for arse-kissing.

1 in 4 women can’t hold memories at all,

Can’t tell you where they’ve been or what they like to recall.

Imagine forgetting pieces of yourself as you grow,

Becoming so small because you simply don’t know.

The lights are too bright, too many voices in her head.

Her brain is all fuzzy, she forgot what you said.

She’s focusing hard, trying to hear what you say,

But her brain switched off, it’s wandered away.

How can she possibly bear one more day?

So many appointments missed, she wrote down the wrong date.

Time blindness again left her painfully late.

So many nights exhausted, still lying awake…

Shit, there’s a kid’s costume I still have to make!

1 in 4 women felt so horribly alone.

They were taught to push through,

Never grumble nor moan.

She went seeking answers. “Is dementia setting in?

Yesterday I found my bloody phone in the bin!”

“Life is so hard, I’m drowning, you see …

Or maybe life’s fine and the problem is me.

The voices, the fog… could this be psychosis?

I really need some kind of proper diagnosis.”

Yet every conclusion, in every society

“You’re a woman, my dear.

It’s probably anxiety.”

1 in 4 women were medically ignored.

The fight became more than they could afford.

They’ll say, “She should have called. She didn’t have to fight alone.” 

But she had ADHD …

She couldn’t find the damn phone.

1 in 4 women felt unbearable shame.

They didn’t know they were never to blame.

Overwhelmed again, back to bed she has fled.

And no, it’s not just because she forgot the bread.

Our minds are always racing,

Our hearts forever torn.

Tired of hiding behind

The masks we’ve always worn.

1 in 4 ADHD women attempt to take their own life.

They just couldn’t bear one more failure

As a mother, partner, or wife ….

ABOUT THE POEM: "Having recently discovered 1 in 4 women with ADHD attempt to take their own life, I wrote this poem so other women feel seen. I’ve never written a poem before, but in true ADHD fashion I hyper-focused at 3am to find how poem structure and rhythm works and this is the end result. It isn’t positive but it is intended for positive purpose, to help others feel seen and help prevent more ADHD deaths."

IN THE WILD

By James Aitchison

In the wild,

only one in

ten thousand oysters

contains a pearl.

In our wild world,

only one in

ten thousand people

becomes a friend.

Like pearls, friends are

treasures — wherever

you find them.

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In their own words, writers and poets write about their own personal journey with mental health.

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