The scars I bear tell a story, my story, history’s story of generations.A story both personal and political.
It’s a question of maintaining my dignity whilst exposing the horror and shame these scars I wear reveal.

What you see are the visible but what you don’t appreciate are the mental, emotional and psychological scars, deep within my being. The words of hate and humiliation that send my head dizzy that I fall to the ground. Ex-haustion from the heat of the sun and from the blow of your fist. And when I’m on the ground there is a foot upon my back pinning me down, or there’s the arm around my neck and the hand over my mouth to silence me. Shut up!

Every scar tells a story, the raised skin, uneven and lumpy. Keloids.
Each one a vivid memory pictured in the psyche, never to be forgotten- well not by me.
Shackled and chained, whipped till the brown skin turned red. Broken flesh.
Slashed with a knife a brutal attack and violation of my body. Mutilated.

My body is the object of abuse. I have been used over and over again without mercy.
Sold as a commodity for the sordid lustful pleasure of others. Can your eyes even hold its gaze upon my flesh?
Do you turn your head or do you stare?
Do my scars disgust you? Frighten you?

(Excerpt from a poem by D. Morrison)