My body tells my story.

Of struggling, fighting, thriving, life-saving glory.

Thick, dark, curly hair, 

Came from a father who was never there.

A right eye that wanders,

From a brain that was starved for,

Oxygen.

The freckles that dust my nose and cheeks,

From too much time in summer heat.

Full tender lips,

Form a mouth waiting to be kissed.

An angled jawline,

Clenched from too much time,

In waiting rooms,

Waiting for news.

Lopsided shoulders,

From a brain that can only wonder,

What it's like to function normally.

One side strengthens,

The other atrophes.

Scars on my right wrist,

From the biggest risk,

A person can contemplate,

Praying God my soul to take.

From almost ending my story,

To proof of his life-saving glory.

A white scar,

Covering two inches of my spine,

From a surgery that changed my life.

Cushioned, padded, ribs,

Evidence,

That a girl who once shyed from food,

Now thinks it's good, and can recover.

Maroon scars from top of hip to thigh,

Surgeries, fixes, medicated highs.

Suture marks, needle pricks,

Aquired through various vitals checks.

Given to me throughout six weeks, 

Of bedrest. 

Re-learning everything, 

A year of recovery.

Knees, legs, bruises, scratches, 

Too many falls, too many crashes.

Feet that turn, 

Toes won't uncurl,

A brain's desperate attempt to heal,

Itself after,

Disaster.

This poem is not for me,

It is for the boy,

Who will one day love me for me,

My body,

Who will listen to,

Cherish every second of,

My story.