If my ribcage were a wishbone,
To give a second chance,
To my battle scarred heart,
Or I had some magic potion,
To heal all my bleeding wounds,
I would be tempted to use them all,
To once again, feel new and whole.
But I would fight past my temptations,
And wear my battle scars with pride,
As blood drips down my battered body,
With bullet holes and arrows hanging,
I shall hold my head high,
For all the battles, I valiantly fought,
I survived, and I thrived.
It would be easy to forget it all,
Patch up the scars and wear a mask.
But why would I ever choose to pretend,
When I have a glorious story to tell?
I don’t need magic to heal me,
I’m magical, and so is my journey.