Dark waters these last few weeks. Mortality reared its ugly head in a multitude of ways. Family and friends have been battling death and sickness. It’s been a bitch. Somewhere in that shit storm I was sitting cross legged, crying and feeling sorry for myself. After all we all are a little narcissistic and I am the first to raise my hand….I’m human.

I’ve often written about my drive with E to school and the ah ha moments I get from him or the sunrise. This week was no different. And yes there is new music my friends…but first let me take you back…to breasts that no longer exist….

They were perfect (in a Kate Moss kinda way) but poison. They had to go. They were killing me and those b’s still are. In their place came scars. And just weirdness. The first appointment that was made was for tattoos to cover the scars. A huge beautiful Phoenix rising from the ashes. A battle cry. The night before my appointment I was sitting on Chris’s lap crying and he said the wisest words ever spoken in my opinion.

“Why are you trying to cover up your battle? Why cover this up when you haven’t given yourself time to love yourself the way you are today?”

Now that’s not exact but the meaning is still there. And he was right. I cancelled my appointment. I never rescheduled. Love yourself the way you are…yep…not there yet. Hoping to get there simply because I want a chest tat so badly…self esteem is a second.

Scars. They run so deep and are more than mars on our skin. For a woman it’s femininity. Thanks US sex culture. For men it’s masculinity. Again…thanks US sex culture. We all feel less whole or worthy of love. Regardless, scars both physical and emotional are fucking scars. They aren’t cracks or beautiful lines. They are scars. They can’t be erased, contoured or fixed. That’s why they are called scars. Permanent.

But scars are also something more than heartache. They are a story. They tell the world of who you are and what your have overcome or are currently battling. Scars are a story without an ending. Your loved ones will always will be telling the story of your scars long after you are gone.

So here I am. Covered in scars. Not who I was before. My brother asked why Virginia and I frankly said, “Ginia is dead.”

Hey Slim. Good to meet you. Where did you get that scar?