Winged--Maned--Wolf

Scars My scars tell a story, a poem, a life, Of years in sadness, in pain, in strife Of years long gone, forgotten, displaced, Of years where the pain, wasn't shown on my face. They cover my arms, from tip  to elbow. They cover my legs, from my thighs to my toes. Done by my own hand, done by my own nails They showed my stress, they tell my tales. Out of stress I would do it, Out of stress I would try. Only to break down. Only to cry. Though long healed, they stand out quite clear. Though long healed, they still appear. I'd hide them for fear, of what people would think. Or my scars healing, Of my scars quite pink. The