My body holds no ink
Not to say I’m against it
For my scars alone are
Enough to talk about
Each one a different memory
That holds significance
Provoking emotion
In the even the smallest form
Some worse than others
Some seen by very few
I could cover them with ink
But the purist in me cringes
Rather flaunting what remains
Instead of hiding it away
For what’s a work of art
Without eyes to view it